GRETNA 

GREEN 

TO 

LANDS 

END 


LITERARY 

JOURNEY 

IN 

ENGLAND 


KATHARINE 

LEE 

BATES 


DUKE 

UNIVERSITY 


LIBRARY 


li/Su 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2018  with  funding  from 
Duke  University  Libraries 


https://archive.org/details/fromgretnagreent01bate 


FROM  GRETNA  GREEN 
TO  LAND’S  END 


FROM  GRETNA  GREEN 
TO  LAND’S  END 

A  READING  JOURNEY  THROUGH  ENGLAND 

By  KATHARINE  LEE  BATES 

Illustrated  Net,  $3.00 

ROMANTIC  LEGENDS 
OF  SPAIN 

By  GUSTAVO  A.  BECQUER 

Translated  by  Cornelia  Frances  Bates 
and  Katharine  Lee  Bates 

Illustrated  Net,  $1.50 

THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO. 

NEW  YORK 


ARDEN  OF  WORDSWORTH  S  HOME  AT  COCKERMOUTH 


J.  HART ,  N UTLEY  N.  J. 


From  Gretna  Green 
to  Land’s  End 

A  LITERARY  JOURNEY  IN  ENGLAND 


By 


KATHARINE  LEE  BATES 

Professor  of  English  Literature  in  Wellesley  College 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  FROM  PHOTOGRAPHS 
BV  KATHARINE  COMAN 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO. 

Publishers 


Copyright,  1907 

By  Thomas  Y.  Crowell  &  Com  pant 


Published,  October,  1907 
Second  Edition,  March,  1908 
Third  Edition,  November,  1909 


THE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.  S.  A, 


yn.l 

-B329F 


TO 


MY  FARING-MATES 

KATHARINE  COMAN 


AND 


ANNIE  BEECHER  SCOVILLE 

Daffodil  and  furze  and  wheat, 
Shining  paths  for  truant  feet ; 
From  that  golden  blossoming 
Wilted  sprays  are  all  I  bring. 

You  mho  knoiv  their  fault  the  best. 
To  their  fault  be  tender est, 

For  a  breath  of  fragrant  days 
Whispers  you  from  wilted  sprays. 


“  Some  Shires,  Joseph-like,  have  a  better  coloured 
coat  than  others;  and  some ,  with  Benjamin,  have 
a  more  bountiful  mess  of  meat  belonging  to  them. 
Yet  every  County  hath  a  child's  proportion 

Thomas  Fuller. 


PJ^HESE  summer  wanderings  through  the 
west  of  England  were  undertaken  at  the 
request  of  The  Chautauquan,  from  whose  pages 
the  bulk  of  this  material  is  reprinted.  But 
the  chronicle  of  this  recent  journey  has  been 
supplemented,  as  the  text  indicates,  by  earlier 
memories. 

K.  L.  B. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


Page 

The  Border .  1 

The  Lake  Country . 30 

Three  Rush-Bearings . 52 

A  Group  of  Industrial  Counties . 76 

The  Heart  of  England — Warwickshire  .  .  137 

The  Cotswolds . 184 

Oxford . 199 

Counties  of  the  Severn  Valley . 230 

Somerset  and  Devonshire . 298 

Cornwall . 350 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FROM  ORIGINAL  PHOTOGRAPHS 

Garden  of  Wordsworth’s  Home  at  Cockermouth  Frontispiece 

Page 

King  Edward’s  Tower,  Lanercost  Abbey  ....  26 

Island  in  Grasmere  Lake . 44 

The  Rush-Bearing  at  Grasmere . 60 

The  Quadrant,  Liverpool . 78 

The  Trent  and  Mersey  Canal . 90 

In  the  Potteries  —  A  Child-Mother . 128 

Feeding  the  Peacocks  at  Warwick  Castle  ....  160 

Wilmcote,  the  Birthplace  of  Shakespeare’s  Mother  .  166 

Charlecote  Park  Entrance . 170 

Tower  of  Chipping  Campden  Church . 188 

The  Rollright  Stones . 192 

The  Tower,  Magdalen  College . 210 

The  Severn  below  the  Quarry,  Shrewsbury  .  .  .  232 

Wigmore  Abbey  —  Gate  House  and  Barn  ....  262 

Tewkesbury  Abbey . 282 

St.  Peter’s  Church,  Clevedon . 320 


xi 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Pasi 

A  Devon  Cottage . 334 

The  Fal . 340 

Church  of  St.  Columb  Minor . 360 

.Arthur’s  Castle,  Tintagel . 364 

Boscastle . 368 

The  Lizard  Light,  Cornwall . 372 

Land’s  End . 37 6 


xii 


From  Gretna  Green  to 
Land's  End 


THE  BORDER 


THE  dominant  interest  of  the  north¬ 
western  counties  is,  of  course,  the 
Lake  District,  with  its  far-famed  poetic 
associations;  yet  for  the  student  of  English 
history  and  the  lover  of  Border  minstrelsy 
the  upper  strip  of  Cumberland  has  a  strong 
attraction  of  its  own. 

An  afternoon  run  on  the  Midland  brought 
us  from  Liverpool  to  Carlisle.  Such  are  the 
eccentricities  of  the  English  railway  system 
that  the  “through  carriage”  into  which  guard 
and  porter  dumped  us  at  Liverpool,  a  third- 
class  carriage  already  crowded  with  one  sleep¬ 
ing  and  one  eating  family,  turned  out  not  to 
be  a  through  carriage  at  all;  and  a  new  guard, 
at  Hellifield,  tore  us  and  our  belongings  forth 
and  thrust  us  into  an  empty  first-class,  linger¬ 
ing  in  the  doorway  until  we  had  produced  the 
inevitable  shilling.  But  the  freedom  of  an 
empty  carriage  would  have  been  well  worth 
'  i  1 


THE  BORDER 


the  honest  price  of  first- class  tickets,  for  as  the 
train  sped  on  from  the  Ribble  into  the  Eden 
Valley,  with  the  blue  heights  of  the  Pennine 
range  and  the  long  reaches  of  the  Yorkshire 
moors  on  our  right,  and  on  our  left  the 
cloud- caressed  summits  of  Lakeland,  we 
needed  all  the  space  there  was  for  our  ex¬ 
ultant  ohs  and  ahs,  not  to  mention  our  con¬ 
tinual  rushing  from  window  to  window  for 
the  swiftly  vanishing  views  of  grey  castle  and 
ruined  abbey,  peel  tower  and  stone  sheep- 
fold,  grange  and  hamlet,  and  the  pearly, 
ever-changing  panorama  of  the  mist. 

Carlisle,  “the  Border  City,”  a  clean,  self- 
respecting,  serious  town,  without  beggars, 
with  no  superfluous  street  courtesies,  but  with 
effectual  aid  in  need,  is  the  heart  of  one  of  the 
most  storied  regions  of  England.  The  River 
Drift  man  and  the  Cave  man  seem  to  have 
fought  the  mammoth  and  the  elk  and  gone 
their  shadowy  way  untraced  in  this  locality, 
but  the  museum  in  Tullie  House  contains 
hammers  and  axes,  found  in  Cumberland  soil, 
of  the  Stone  Age,  and  spear-heads  and  arrow¬ 
heads,  urns  for  human  ashes,  incense  cups, 
food  vessels  and  drinking  vessels  of  the  Bronze 
Age,  —  mute  memorials  of  life  that  once  was 

2 


THE  BORDER 


lived  so  eagerly  beneath  these  same  soft, 
brooding  skies. 

As  for  the  Romans,  they  seem  here  like  a 
race  of  yesterday.  A  penny  tram  took  us, 
in  the  clear,  quiet  light  of  what  at  home  would 
be  the  middle  of  the  evening,  out  to  Stanwix, 
originally,  it  is  believed,  an  important  station 
in  the  series  of  fortresses  that  guarded  the 
northern  boundary  of  Roman  Britain.  These 
frontier  lines  consisted  of  a  great  stone  wall, 
eight  feet  thick  and  eighteen  feet  high,  ditched, 
and  set  with  forts  and  towers,  running  straight 
from  the  Solway  to  the  Tyne,  a  distance  of 
some  seventy- three  miles,  and  a  little  to  the 
south  of  this,  what  is  known  as  the  vallum , 
a  fosse  with  mounds  of  soil  and  rock  on  either 
side.  The  local  antiquaries,  urged  on  by  a 
committee  of  Oxford  men,  have  recently  dis¬ 
covered  a  third  wall,  built  of  sods,  between 
the  two,  and  excavation  and  discussion  have 
received  a  fresh  impetus.  Was  the  vallum 
built  by  Agricola,  —  earthworks  thrown  up 
by  that  adventurous  general  of  the  first  Chris¬ 
tian  century  to  secure  his  conquest?  Was 
the  turf  wall  the  erection  of  the  great  emperor 
Hadrian,  who  visited  Britain  in  the  year  120, 
and  was  the  huge  stone  rampart  constructed, 

3 


THE  BORDER 


early  in  the  third  century,  by  the  Emperor 
Severus  ?  Or  does  the  stone  wall  date  from 
Hadrian?  Or  did  he  build  all  three? 

While  the  scholars  literally  dig  for  truth, 
we  may  sit  on  the  site  of  this  ponderous,  well- 
nigh  perished  bulwark  at  Stanwix,  with  what 
is  perhaps  the  wrinkle  left  on  the  landscape 
by  the  wall's  deep  moat  dropping,  under  a 
screen  of  hawthorns  and  wind-silvered  pop¬ 
lars,  sheer  at  our  feet,  and  thence  we  may  look 
out  across  the  Eden,  with  its  dipping  gulls 
and  sailing  swans,  its  hurrying  swifts  and 
little  dancing  eddy,  to  the  heights  of  Carlisle. 
For  the  city  is  built  on  a  natural  eminence 
almost  encircled  by  the  Eden  and  its  tribu¬ 
taries,  the  Petteril  and  the  Caldew.  It  is  a 
fine  view  even  now,  with  the  level  light  cen¬ 
tred  on  the  red  sandstone  walls  of  the  grim 
castle,  though  factory  chimneys  push  into 
the  upper  air,  overtopping  both  the  castle  and 
its  grave  neighbour,  the  cathedral;  but  for 
mass  and  dignity,  for  significance,  these  two 
are  unapproachable:  these  are  Carlisle. 

We  must  not  see  them  yet.  We  must  see  a 
lonely  bluff  set  over  with  the  round  clay  huts  of 
the  Britons,  and  then,  as  the  Roman  legions 
sweep  these  like  so  many  mole-hills  from  their 

4 


THE  BORDER 


path,  we  must  see  in  gradual  growth  a  Roman 
town,  —  not  luxurious,  with  the  tessellated 
marble  pavements  and  elaborate  baths  that 
have  left  their  splendid  fragments  farther 
south,  but  a  busy  trading-point  serving  the 
needs  of  that  frontier  line  of  garrisons  which 
numbered  no  less  than  fifteen  thousand  men. 
Some  few  inscribed  and  sculptured  stones, 
remnants  of  altars,  tombs,  and  the  like,  may 
be  seen  in  the  museum,  with  lamps,  dishes, 
and  other  specimens  of  such  coarse  and  simple 
pottery  as  was  in  daily  use  by  common  Roman 
folk  when  the  days  and  the  nights  were 
theirs. 

The  name  Carlisle  —  and  it  is  said  to  be 
the  only  city  of  England  which  bears  a  purely 
British  name  —  was  originally  Caer  Lywelydd, 
British  enough  in  very  sooth.  This  the  Ro- 
mans  altered  to  Lugubalia,  and  when,  in 
409,  the  garrisons  of  the  Wall  were  recalled 
for  the  protection  of  Rome  herself,  the  Britons 
of  the  neighbourhood  made  it  their  centre,  and 
it  passed  into  Arthurian  tradition  as  Cardueil. 
Even  the  ballads  vaguely  sing  of  a  time 
when 

“King  Arthur  lived  in  Merrv  Carlisle 
And  seemly  was  to  see.” 


THE  BORDER 


But  although  the  Britons  sometimes  united, 
under  one  hero  or  a  succession  of  heroes,  to 
save  the  land,  now  abandoned  by  the  Romans, 
from  the  Saxons,  they  were  often  at  war 
among  themselves,  and  the  headship  of  their 
northern  confederacy  was  wrested  from  Car¬ 
lisle  and  transferred  to  Dumbarton  on  the 
Clyde.  The  kingdom  of  the  Cumbrian 
Britons,  thenceforth  known  as  Strathclyde, 
fell  before  the  assault  of  the  English  king¬ 
dom  of  Northumbria,  in  which  the  Christian 
faith  had  taken  deep  root.  For  though  the 
Britons,  in  the  fourth  century  of  Roman  rule, 
had  accepted  Christianity,  the  Angles  had 
come  in  with  their  own  gods,  and  a  new  con¬ 
version  of  the  north,  effected  by  missionaries 
from  Iona,  took  place  about  the  sixth  century. 
Sculptured  crosses  of  this  period  still  remain 
in  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland,  and  the 
Carlisle  museum  preserves,  in  Runic  letters, 
a  Christian  epitaph  of  “  Cimokom,  Alh’s 
queen.” 

“Holy  into  ruin  she  went,” 

is  the  eloquent  record,  and  from  her  grave 
she  utters  the  new  hope: 


THE  BORDER 


“My  body  the  all-loving  Christ 
Young  again  shall  renew  after  death, 

But  indeed  sorrowing  tear-flow 
Never  shall  afflict  me  more.” 

For  a  moment  the  mists  that  have  gathered 
about  the  shelving  rock  to  which  we  are  look¬ 
ing  not  merely  across  the  Eden,  but  across 
the  river  of  time,  divide  and  reveal  the  figure 
of  Cuthbert,  the  great  monk  of  Northumbria, 
to  whom  King  Egfrith  had  committed  the 
charge  of  his  newly  founded  monastery  at 
Caerluel.  The  Venerable  Bede  tells  how, 
while  the  king  had  gone  up  into  Scotland  on 
a  daring  expedition  against  the  Piets,  in  685, 
Cuthbert  visited  the  city,  whose  officials,  for 
his  better  entertainment,  took  him  to  view 
a  Roman  fountain  of  choice  workmanship. 
But  he  stood  beside  its  carven  rim  with  ab¬ 
sent  look,  leaning  on  his  staff,  and  mur¬ 
mured:  “Perchance  even  now  the  conflict  is 
decided.”  And  so  it  was,  to  the  downfall 
of  Egfrith’s  power  and  the  confusion  of  the 
north.  After  the  ravaging  Scots  and  Piets 
came  the  piratical  Danes,  and,  about  875, 
what  was  left  of  Carlisle  went  up  in  flame.  A 
rusted  sword  or  two  in  the  museum  tells  the 
fierce  story  of  the  Danish  sack.  At  the  end 

7 


THE  BORDER 


of  the  tenth  century  Cumberland  was  ceded 
to  Scotland,  but  was  recovered  by  William 
Rufus,  son  of  William  the  Conqueror.  Car¬ 
lisle,  the  only  city  added  to  England  since  the 
Norman  conquest,  was  then  a  heap  of  ruins; 
but  in  1092,  says  the  “Anglo-Saxon  Chroni¬ 
cle,”  the  king  “went  northward  with  a  great 
army,  and  set  up  the  wall  of  Carluel,  and 
reared  the  castle.” 

No  longer 

“The  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle  wall,” 

but  there  is  still  the  castle,  which  even  the 
most  precipitate  tourist  does  not  fail  to  visit. 
We  went  in  one  of  those  wild  blusters  of  wind 
and  rain  which  are  rightly  characteristic  of 
this  city  of  tempestuous  history,  and  had  to 
cling  to  the  battlements  to  keep  our  footing 
on  the  rampart  walk.  We  peeped  out  through 
the  long  slits  of  the  loop-holes,  but  saw  no 
more  formidable  enemies  than  storm-clouds 
rising  from  the  north.  The  situation  was  un¬ 
favourable  to  historic  reminiscence,  nor  did 
the  blatant  guide  below,  who  hammered  our 
ears  with  items  of  dubious  information,  help 
us  to  a  realisation  of  the  castle’s  robust  career. 
Yet  for  those  who  have  eyes  to  read,  the  stones 

8  ^ 


TIIE  BORDER 


of  these  stern  towers  are  a  chronicle  of  an¬ 
cient  reigns  and  furious  wars,  dare-devil  ad¬ 
venture  and  piteous  tragedy. 

The  Norman  fortress  seems  to  have  been 
reared  upon  the  site  of  a  Roman  stronghold, 
whose  walls  and  conduits  are  still  traceable. 
After  William  Rufus  came  other  royal  build¬ 
ers,  notably  Edward  I  and  Richard  III.  It 
was  in  the  reign  of  the  first  Edward  that  Car¬ 
lisle  won  royal  favour  by  a  spirited  defence 
against  her  Scottish  neighbours,  the  men  of 
Annandale,  who,  forty  thousand  strong, 
marched  red-handed  across  the  Border.  A 
Scottish  spy  within  the  city  set  it  on  fire,  but 
while  the  men  of  Carlisle  fought  the  flames, 
the  women  scrambled  to  the  walls  and,  roll¬ 
ing  down  stones  on  the  assailants  and  shower¬ 
ing  them  with  boiling  water,  kept  them  off 
until  an  ingenious  burgher,  venturing  out  on 
the  platform  above  the  gate,  fished  up,  with 
a  stout  hook,  the  leader  of  the  besiegers  and 
held  him  high  in  the  air  while  lances  and 
arrows  pierced  him  through  and  through. 
This  irregular  mode  of  warfare  was  too  much 
for  the  men  of  Annandale,  who  marched 
home  again  in  disgust. 

During  Edward’s  wars  against  Wallace 
9 


THE  BORDER 


he  made  Carlisle  his  headquarters.  Twice 
he  held  Parliaments  there,  and  it  was  from 
Carlisle  he  set  forth,  a'  dying  king,  on  his  last 
expedition  against  the  Scots.  In  four  days 
he  had  ridden  but  six  miles,  and  then  breath 
left  the  exhausted  body.  His  death  was  kept 
secret  until  his  son  could  reach  Carlisle,  which 
witnessed,  in  that  eventful  July  of  1307,  a 
solemn  gathering  of  the  barons  of  England  to 
mourn  above  the  bier  of  their  great  war-lord 
and  pay  their  homage  to  the  ill-starred  Ed¬ 
ward  II.  A  quarter  century  later,  Lord 
Dacre,  then  captain  of  Carlisle  Castle,  opened 
its  gates  to  a  royal  fugitive  from  Scotland, 
Balliol;  and  Edward  III,  taking  up  the  cause 
of  the  rejected  sovereign,  made  war,  from  Car¬ 
lisle  as  his  headquarters,  on  the  Scots.  After 
the  Wars  of  the  Roses,  Edward  IV  com¬ 
mitted  the  north  of  England  to  the  charge  of 
his  brother  Gloucester,  who  bore  the  titles 
of  Lord  Warden  of  the  Marches  and  Captain 
of  Carlisle  Castle.  Monster  though  tradi¬ 
tion  has  made  him,  Richard  III  seems  to 
have  had  a  sense  of  beauty,  for  Richard’s 
Tower  still  shows  mouldings  and  other  or¬ 
namental  touches  unusual  in  the  northern 
architecture  of  the  period. 

10 


THE  BORDER 


But  the  royal  memory  which  most  of  all 
casts  a  glamour  over  Carlisle  Castle  is  that 
of  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots.  Fleeing  from  her 
own  subjects,  she  came  to  England,  in  15G8, 
a  self-invited  guest.  She  landed  from  a 
fishing-boat  at  Workington,  on  the  Cumber¬ 
land  coast,  —  a  decisive  moment  which 
Wordsworth  has  crystallised  in  a  sonnet: 

“Dear  to  the  Loves,  and  to  the  Graces  vowed, 

The  Queen  drew  back  the  wimple  that  she  wore; 

And  to  the  throng,  that  on  the  Cumbrian  shore 
Her  landing  hailed,  how  touchingly  she  bowed! 

And  like  a  star  (that,  from  a  heavy  cloud 
Of  pine-tree  foliage  poised  in  air,  forth  darts, 

When  a  soft  summer  gale  at  evening  parts 
The  gloom  that  did  its  loveliness  enshroud) 

She  smiled;  but  Time,  the  old  Saturnian  seer. 

Sighed  on  the  wing  as  her  foot  pressed  the  strand 
With  step  prelusive  to  a  long  array 
Of  woes  and  degradations  hand  in  hand  — 

Weeping  captivity  and  shuddering  fear 

Stilled  by  the  ensanguined  block  of  Fotheringay!” 

Mary  was  escorted  with  all  courtesy  to 
Cockermouth  Castle  and  thence  to  Carlisle, 
where  hospitality  soon  became  imprison¬ 
ment.  Her  first  request  of  Elizabeth  was  for 
clothing,  and  it  was  in  one  of  the  deep- walled 
rooms  of  Queen  Mary’s  Tower,  of  which 
only  the  gateway  now  remains,  that  she  im- 

11 


THE  BORDER 


patiently  looked  on  while  her  ladies  opened 
Elizabeth’s  packet  to  find  —  “  two  torn  shifts, 
two  pieces  of  black  velvet,  and  two  pairs  of 
shoes.”  The  parsimony  of  Queen  Bess  has 
a  curious  echo  in  the  words  of  Sir  Francis 
Knollys,  who,  set  to  keep  this  disquieting 
guest  under  close  surveillance,  was  much 
concerned  when  she  took  to  sending  to  Edin¬ 
burgh  for  “coffers  of  apparell,”  especially 
as  she  did  not  pay  the  messengers,  so  that 
Elizabeth,  after  all,  was  “like  to  bear  the 
charges”  of  Mary’s  vanity.  The  captive 
queen  was  allowed  a  semblance  of  freedom 
in  Carlisle.  She  walked  the  terrace  of  the 
outer  ward  of  the  castle,  went  to  service  in 
the  cathedral,  and  sometimes,  with  her  ladies, 
strolled  in  the  meadows  beside  the  Eden,  or 
watched  her  gentlemen  play  a  game  of  foot¬ 
ball,  or  even  hunted  the  hare,  although  her 
warders  were  in  a  fever  of  anxiety  whenever 
she  was  on  horseback  lest  she  should  take  it 
into  her  wilful,  beautiful  head  to  gallop  back 
to  Scotland. 

But  these  frowning  towers  have  more  terri¬ 
ble  records  of  captivity.  Under  the  old  Nor¬ 
man  keep  are  hideous  black  vaults,  with  the 
narrowest  of  slits  for  the  admission  of  air,  and 

12 


THE  BORDER 


with  the  walls  still  showing  the  rivet- holes 
of  the  chains  by  which  the  hapless  prisoners 
were  so  heavily  fettered. 

“Full  fifteen  stane  o'  Spanish  iron 
They  hae  laid  a’  right  sair  on  me; 

Wi’  locks  and  keys  I  am  fast  bound 
Into  this  dungeon  dark  and  dreerie.” 

Rude  devices,  supposed  to  be  the  pastime 
of  captives,  are  carved  upon  the  walls  of  a 
mural  chamber,  —  a  chamber  which  has 
special  significance  for  the  reader  of  “  Wavcr- 
ley,”  as  here,  it  is  said,  Major  Macdonald, 
the  original  of  Fergus  Maclvor,  was  confined. 
For  Carlisle  Castle  was  never  more  cruel  than 
to  the  Jacobites  of  1745.  On  November  18 
Bonny  Prince  Charlie,  preceded  by  one  hun¬ 
dred  Highland  pipers,  had  made  triumphal 
entrance  into  the  surrendered  city,  through 
which  he  passed  again,  on  the  £lst  of  De¬ 
cember,  in  retreat.  Carlisle  was  speedily  re¬ 
taken  by  the  English  troops,  and  its  garrison, 
including  Jemmy  Dawson  of  Jacobite  song, 
sent  in  ignominy  to  London.  Even  so  the 
cells  of  the  castle  were  crammed  with  prison¬ 
ers,  mainly  Scots,  who  were  borne  to  death 
in  batches.  Pinioned  in  the  castle  courtyard, 
seated  on  black  hurdles  drawn  by  white  horses, 

13 


THE  BORDER 


with  the  executioner,  axe  in  hand,  crouching 
behind,  they  were  drawn,  to  make  a  Carlisle 
holiday,  under  the  gloomy  arch  of  the  castle 
gate,  through  the  thronged  and  staring  street, 
and  along  the  London  road  to  Harraby  Hill, 
where  they  suffered,  one  after  another,  the 
barbarous  penalty  for  high  treason.  The 
ghastly  heads  were  set  up  on  pikes  over  the 
castle  gates  (yetts),  as  Scotch  balladry  well 
remembers. 

“White  was  the  rose  in  his  gay  bonnet, 

As  he  folded  me  in  his  broached  plaidie; 

His  hand,  which  clasped  mine  i’  the  truth  o’  luve, 

O  it  was  aye  in  battle  ready. 

His  lang,  lang  hair  in  yellow  hanks 
Waved  o’er  his  cheeks  sae  sweet  and  ruddy, 

But  now  they  wave  o’er  Carlisle  yetts 
In  dripping  ringlets  clotting  bloodie. 

My  father’s  blood’s  in  that  flower  tap, 

My  brother’s  in  that  hare-bell’s  blossom; 

This  white  rose  was  steeped  in  my  luve’s  blude, 

And  I’ll  aye  wear  it  in  my  bosom. 

“When  I  cam’  first  by  merrie  Carlisle, 

Was  ne’er  a  town  sae  sweetly  seeming; 

The  white  rose  flaunted  o’er  the  wall, 

The  thistled  banners  far  were  streaming! 

When  I  cam’  next  bv  merrie  Carlisle, 

O  sad,  sad  seemed  the  town,  and  eerie! 

The  auld,  auld  men  came  out  and  wept  — 

O,  maiden,  come  ye  to  seek  yer  dearie  ?” 

n 


THE  BORDER 


But  not  all  the  ballads  of  Carlisle  Castle 
are  tragic.  Blithe  enough  is  the  one  that  tells 
how  the  Lochmaben  harper  outwitted  the 
warden,  who,  when  the  minstrel,  mounted 
on  a  grey  mare,  rode  up  to  the  castle  gate, 
invited  him  in  to  ply  his  craft. 

“Then  aye  he  harped,  and  aye  he  carped, 

Till  a’  the  lordlings  footed  the  floor; 

But  an  the  music  was  sae  sweet, 

The  groom  had  nae  mind  o’  the  stable  door. 

“And  aye  he  harped,  and  aye  he  carped, 

Till  a’  the  nobles  were  fast  asleep; 

Then  quickly  he  took  off  his  shoon, 

And  softly  down  the  stair  did  creep.” 

So  he  stole  into  the  stable  and  slipped  a 
halter  over  the  nose  of  a  fine  brown  stallion 
belonging  to  the  warden  and  tied  it  to  the  grey 
mare’s  tail.  Then  he  turned  them  loose,  and 
she,  who  had  a  foal  at  home,  would  not  once 
let  the  brown  horse  bait, 

“But  kept  him  a-galloping  home  to  her  foal.” 

When  the  loss  of  the  two  horses  was  dis¬ 
covered  in  the  morning,  the  harper  made 
such  ado  that  the  warden  paid  him  three 
times  over  for  the  grey  mare. 

15 


THE  BORDER 


“And  verra  gude  business,”  commented 
our  Scotch  landlady. 

The  most  famous  of  the  Carlisle  Castle 
ballads  relates  the  rescue  of  Kinmont  Willie, 
a  high-handed  cattle- thief  of  the  Border.  For 
between  the  recognised  English  and  Scottish 
boundaries  lay  a  strip  of  so-called  Debatable 
Land,  whose  settlers,  known  as  the  Bata- 
bles,  owed  allegiance  to  neither  country, 
but 

“Sought  the  beeves,  that  made  their  broth. 

In  Scotland  and  in  England  both.” 


This  Border  was  a  natural  shelter  for  out¬ 
laws,  refugees,  and  “broken  men”  in  general, 
—  reckless  fellowrs  who  loved  the  wildness 
and  peril  of  the  life,  men  of  the  type  depicted 
in  “The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel.” 


“A  stark  moss-trooping  Scot  was  he. 

As  e’er  couched  Border  lauce  by  knee: 
Through  Solway  sands,  through  Tarras  moss, 
Blindfold,  he  knew  the  paths  to  cross; 

By  wily  turns,  by  desperate  bounds, 

Had  baffled  Percy’s  best  bloodhounds; 

In  Eske,  or  Liddel,  fords  were  none, 

But  he  would  ride  them,  one  by  one; 

Alike  to  him  was  time,  or  tide, 

December’s  snow  or  July’s  pride: 

16' 


THE  BORDER 


Alike  to  him  was  tide,  or  time. 

Moonless  midnight,  or  matin  prime: 
Steady  of  heart,  and  stout  of  hand, 

As  ever  drove  prey  from  Cumberland; 

Five  times  outlawed  had  he  been. 

By  England’s  king  and  Scotland’s  queen.” 


Although  these  picturesque  plunderers  cost 
the  neighbourhood  dear,  they  never  failed 
of  sympathy  in  the  hour  of  doom.  The 
Graemes,  for  instance,  were  a  large  clan  who 
lived  by  rapine.  In  1G00,  when  Elizabeth’s 
government  compelled  them  to  give  a  bond 
of  surety  for  one  another’s  good  behaviour, 
they  numbered  more  than  four  hundred 
fighting  men.  There  was  Muckle  Willie, 
and  Mickle  Willie,  and  Nimble  Willie,  and 
many  a  Willie  more.  But  the  execution  of 
Hughie  the  Graeme  was  none  the  less 
grievous. 

‘‘Gude  Lord  Scroope’s  to  the  hunting  gane, 

He  has  ridden  o’er  moss  and  muir; 

And  he  has  grippit  Ilughie  the  Graeme, 

For  stealing  o’  the  Bishop’s  mare. 

“Then  they  have  grippit  Hughie  the  Graeme, 

And  brought  him  up  through  Carlisle  toun; 

The  lasses  and  lads  stood  on  the  walls, 

Crying,  ‘Hughie  the  Graeme,  thou  ’se  ne’er  gae  doun.’  ” 

2  17 


THE  BORDER 


They  tried  him  by  a  jury  of  men, 

“The  best  that  were  in  Carlisle  toun,’* 

and  although  his  guilt  was  open,  “gude  Lord 
Hume”  offered  the  judge  “twenty  white 
owsen”  to  let  him  off,  and  “gude  lady  Hume  ” 
“a  peck  of  white  pennies,”  but  it  was  of  no 
avail,  and  Hughie  went  gallantly  to  his  death. 

For  these  Eatables  had  their  own  code  of 
right  and  wrong,  and  were,  in  their  peculiar 
way,  men  of  honour.  There  was  Hobbie 
Noble,  an  English  outlaw,  who  was  betrayed 
by  a  comrade  for  English  gold,  and  who, 
hanged  at  Carlisle,  expressed  on  the  gallows 
his  execration  of  such  conduct. 

“I  wad  hae  betray’d  nae  lad  alive, 

For  a’  the  gowd  o’  Christentie.” 

The  seizure  of  Kinmont  Willie  was  hotly 
resented,  even  though  his  clan,  the  Arm¬ 
strongs,  who  had  built  themselves  strong 
towers  on  the  Debatable  Land,  “robbed, 
spoiled,  burned  and  murdered,”  as  the 
Warden  of  the  West  Marches  complained, 
all  along  upper  Cumberland.  The  Arm¬ 
strongs  could,  at  one  time,  muster  out  over 
three  thousand  horsemen,  and  Dacres  and 

18 


THE  BORDER 


Howards  strove  in  vain  to  bring  them  under 
control.  Yet  there  was  “Border  law,”  too, 
one  of  its  provisions  being  that  on  the  ap¬ 
pointed  days  of  truce,  when  the  “Lord 
Wardens  of  England  and  Scotland,  and  Scot¬ 
land  and  England”  met,  each  attended  by  a 
numerous  retinue,  at  a  midway  cairn,  to  hear 
complaints  from  either  side  and  administer 
a  rude  sort  of  justice  in  accordance  with  “the 
laws  of  the  Marches,”  no  man  present,  not 
even  the  most  notorious  freebooter,  could  be 
arrested.  But  William  Armstrong  of  Kin- 
mont  was  too  great  a  temptation;  he  had 
harried  Cumberland  too  long;  and  a  troop 
of  some  two  hundred  English  stole  after  him, 
as  he  rode  off  carelessly  along  the  Liddel 
bank,  when  the  assemblage  broke  up,  over¬ 
powered  him,  and  brought  him  in  bonds  to 
Carlisle. 


“O  have  ye  na  heard  o’  the  fause  Sakelde  ? 

O  have  ye  na  heard  o’  the  keen  Lord  Scroope  ? 
How  they  hae  ta’en  bauld  Kinmont  Willie, 

On  Haribee  to  hang  him  up  ? 

“They  led  him  through  the  Liddel  rack 
And  also  through  the  Carlisle  sands; 

They  brought  him  to  Carlisle  castle, 

To  be  at  my  Lord  Scroope’s  commands.’’ 

19 


THE  BORDER 


But  this  was  more  than  the  Scottish  war¬ 
den,  Sir  Walter  Scott  of  Buccleuch,  could 
bear. 


“And  have  they  ta’en  him,  Kinmont  Willie, 

Against  the  truce  of  the  Border  tide, 

And  forgotten  that  the  bauld  Buccleuch 
Is  Keeper  on  the  Scottish  side  ? 

“And  have  they  ta’en  him,  Kinmont  Willie, 
Withouten  either  dread  or  fear, 

And  forgotten  that  the  bauld  Buccleuch 
Can  back  a  steed  or  shake  a  spear? 

“O!  were  there  war  between  the  lands, 

As  well  I  wot  that  there  is  nane, 

I  would  slight  Carlisle  castle  high 

Though  it  were  builded  of  marble  stane. 

“I  would  set  that  castle  in  a  low  1 
And  sloken  it  with  English  blood; 

'I  here’s  never  a  man  in  Cumberland 
Should  ken  where  Carlisle  Castle  stood. 

“But  since  nae  war’s  between  the  lands. 

And  there  is  peace,  and  peace  should  be, 

I  ’ll  neither  harm  English  lad  or  lass, 

And  yet  the  Kinmont  freed  shall  be.’’ 

So  Buccleuch  rode  out,  one  dark  night, 
with  a  small  party  of  Borderers,  and  suc¬ 
ceeded,  aided  by  one  of  the  gusty  storms  of 


1  Blaze. 


SO 


THE  BORDER 


the  region,  in  making  his  way  to  Carlisle 
undetected. 

“And  when  we  left  the  Staneshaw-bank, 

The  wind  began  full  loud  to  blaw; 

But ’t  was  wind  and  weet,  and  fire  and  sleet, 

When  we  came  beneath  the  castle  wa’.” 

The  sudden  uproar  raised  by  the  little  band 
bewildered  the  garrison,  and  to  Kinmont 
W  illie,  heavily  ironed  in  the  inner  dungeon 
and  expecting  death  in  the  morning,  came 
the  voices  of  friends. 

“WF  coulters,  and  wi’  forehammers. 

We  garr’d  1  the  bars  bang  merrilie, 

Until  we  cam’  to  the  inner  prison, 

Where  Willie  o’  Kinmont  he  did  lie. 

“And  when  we  cam’  to  the  lower  prison, 

Where  Willie  o’  Kinmont  he  did  lie: 

‘O  sleep  ve,  wake  ye,  Kinmont  Willie, 

Upon  the  morn  that  thou’s  to  die?’ 

“‘O  I  sleep  saft,  and  I  wake  aft; 

It’s  lang  since  sleeping  was  fley’d  frae  me! 

Gie  my  service  back  to  my  wife  and  bairns. 

And  a’  gude  fellows  that  spier  2  for  me.’” 

But  his  spirits  rose  to  the  occasion,  and  when 
Red  Rowan, 

“The  starkest  man  in  Teviotdale,” 


1  Made. 


21 


*  Inquire. 


THE  BORDER 


hoisted  Kinmont  Willie,  whose  fetters  there 
was  no  time  to  knock  off,  on  his  back  and 
carried  him  up  to  the  breach  they  had  made 
in  the  wall,  from  which  they  went  down  by 
a  ladder  they  had  brought  with  them,  the  man 
so  narrowly  delivered  from  the  noose  had  his 
jest  ready: 


“Then  shoulder-high  with  shout  and  cry 
We  bore  him  down  the  ladder  lang; 

At  ever}'  stride  Red  Rowan  made 

I  wot  the  Kinmont’s  aims  1  play’d  clang. 

“‘O  mony  a  time,’  quo’  Kinmont  Willie, 

‘I  have  ridden  horse  baith  wild  and  wood,2 
But  a  rougher  beast  than  Red  Rowan 
I  ween  my  legs  have  ne’er  bestrode. 

“‘And  mony  a  time,’  quo’  Kinmont  Willie, 

‘I’ve  pricked  a  horse  out  owre  the  furse. 

But  since  the  day  I  back’d  a  steed, 

I  never  wore  sic  cumbrous  spurs.’” 

It  is  high  time  that  we,  too,  escaped  from 
Carlisle  Castle  into  the  open-air  delights  of 
the  surrounding  country.  Five  miles  to  the 
east  lies  the  pleasant  village  of  Wetheral  on 
the  Eden.  Corby  Castle,  seat  of  a  branch  of 
the  great  Howard  family,  crowns  the  wooded 


1  Irons. 


22 


2  Mad. 


THE  BORDER 


hill  across  the  river,  but  we  lingered  in  Wethe- 
ral  Church  for  the  sake  of  one  who  may  have 
been  an  ancestor  of  “the  fause  Sakelde.” 
This  stately  sleeper  is  described  as  Sir  Richard 
Salkeld,  “Captain  and  Keeper  of  Carlisle,” 
who,  at  about  the  time  of  Henry  VII,  “  in  this 
land  was  mickle  of  might.”  His  effigy  is 
sadly  battered;  both  arms  are  gone,  a  part 
of  a  leg,  and  the  whole  body  is  marred  and 
dinted,  with  latter-day  initials  profanely 
scrawled  upon  it.  But  he,  lying  on  the  out¬ 
side,  has  taken  the  brunt  of  abuse  and,  like 
a  chivalrous  lord,  protected  Dame  Jane,  his 
lady,  whose  alabaster  gown  still  falls  in  even 
folds. 

We  drove  eastward  ten  miles  farther,  under 
sun  and  shower,  now  by  broad  meadows 
where  sleek  kine,  secure  at  last  from  cattle- 
lifters,  were  tranquilly  grazing,  now  by  solemn 
ranks  of  Scotch  firs,  by  far-reaching  parks 
of  smooth-barked,  muscular  beeches,  now 
through  stone- paved  hamlets  above  whose 
shop-doors  we  would  read  the  familiar  ballad 
names,  Scott,  Graham  (Graeme),  Armstrong, 
Musgrave,  Johnston,  Kerr,  and  wonder  how 
the  wild  blood  of  the  Border  had  been  tamed 
to  the  selling  of  picture  postal  cards. 

23 


THE  BORDER 


Our  goal  was  Naworth,  one  of  the  most 
romantic  of  English  castles.  Its  two  great 
towers,  as  we  approached,  called  imagination 
back  to  the  days 

“When,  from  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 

Rode  forth  Lord  Howard’s  chivalry, 

And  minstrels,  as  they  marched  in  order, 

Played,  ‘Noble  Lord  Dacre,  he  dwells  on  the  Border.’” 

Naworth  is  the  heart  of  a  luxuriant  valley. 
The  position  owes  its  defensive  strength  to 
the  gorges  cut  by  the  Irthing  and  two  tribu¬ 
taries.  These  three  streams,  when  supple¬ 
mented  by  the  old  moat,  made  Naworth  an 
island  fortress.  The  seat  of  the  Earls  of  Car¬ 
lisle,  it  was  built  by  Ranulph  Dacre  in  the 
fourteenth  century.  Even  the  present  Lady 
Carlisle,  a  pronounced  Liberal  and  a  vigorous 
worker  in  the  causes  of  Temperance  and 
Woman  Suffrage,  though  claiming  to  be  a 
more  thoroughgoing  Republican  than  any 
of  us  in  the  United  States,  points  out  with 
something  akin  to  pride  “the  stone  man”  on 
the  Dacre  Tower  who  has  upheld  the  family 
escutcheon  there  for  a  little  matter  of  five 
hundred  years.  In  the  sixteenth  century  the 
Dacre  lands  passed  by  marriage  to  the  How- 

24 


THE  BORDER 


ards,  and  “Belted  Will,”  as  Sir  Walter  Scott 
dubbed  Lord  William  Howard,  proved,  under 
Elizabeth  and  James,  an  efficient  agent  of 
law  and  order.  Two  suits  of  his  plate  armour 
still  bear  witness  to  the  warrior,  whom  the 
people  called  “Bauld  Willie,”  with  the  same 
homely  directness  that  named  his  wife,  in 
recognition  of  the  ample  dower  she  brought 
him,  “Bessie  with  the  braid  apron,”  but  his 
tastes  were  scholarly  and  his  disposition  de¬ 
vout.  Lord  William’s  Tower,  with  its  rugged 
stone  walls,  its  loopholes  and  battlements, 
its  steep  and  narrow  winding-stair  guarded 
by  a  massive  iron  door,  its  secret  passage  to 
the  dungeons,  is  feudal  enough  in  suggestion, 
yet  here  may  be  seen  his  library  with  the  oak- 
panelled  roof  and  the  great  case  of  tempting 
old  folios,  and  here  his  oratory,  with  its  fine 
wood-carvings,  its  Flemish  altar-piece,  and 
its  deep- windowed  recess  outlooking  on  a  fair 
expanse  of  green  earth  and  silver  sky. 

This  castle,  with  its  magnificent  baronial 
hall,  its  treasures  of  art  and  spirit  of  frank 
hospitality,  was  harder  to  escape  from  than 
Carlisle.  There  was  no  time  to  follow  the 
Irthing  eastward  to  the  point  where,  as  the 
Popping  Stones  tell,  Walter  Scott  offered  his 

25 


THE  BORDER 


warm  heart  and  honest  hand  to  the  dark- eyed 
daughter  of  a  French  emigre.  But  we  could 
not  miss  Lanercost,  the  beautiful  ruined 
abbey  lying  about  a  mile  to  the  north  of  Na- 
worth.  An  Augustine  foundation  of  the 
twelfth  century,  it  has  its  memories  of  Ed¬ 
ward  I,  who  visited  it  with  Queen  Eleanor 
in  1180  and  came  again  in  broken  health,  six 
years  later,  to  spend  quietly  in  King  Edward’s 
Tower  the  last  winter  of  his  life.  The  nave 
now  makes  a  noble  parish  church  in  which 
windows  by  William  Morris  and  Burne- 
Jones  glow  like  jewels.  The  choir  is  roof¬ 
less,  but  gracious  in  its  ruin,  its  pavement 
greened  by  moss,  feathery  grasses  wTaving 
from  its  lofty  arcades,  and  its  walls  weathered 
to  all  pensive,  tender  tints.  The  ancient 
tombs,  most  of  them  bearing  the  scallop- 
shells  of  the  Dacres,  are  rich  in  sculpture. 
Into  the  transept  walls  are  built  some  square 
grey  stones  of  the  Roman  Wall,  and  a  Roman 
altar  forms  a  part  of  the  clerestory  roof.  The 
crypt,  too,  contains  several  Roman  altars, 
dedicated  to  different  gods  whose  figures, 
after  the  lapse  of  two  thousand  years,  are 
startling  in  their  spirited  grace,  their  energy 


KINO  EDWARD  S  TOWER,  LAN  ERCOST  A  UREY 


THE  BORDER 


But  Lanercost  reminds  us  that  we  have  all 
but  ignored  Carlisle  Cathedral,  and  back  we 
drive,  by  way  of  the  village  of  Brampton  with 
its  curious  old  market-hall,  to  the  Border 
City.  After  all,  we  have  only  followed  the 
custom  of  the  place  in  slighting  the  cathedral. 
Carlisle  was  ever  too  busy  fighting  to  pay 
much  heed  to  formal  worship. 

“For  mass  or  prayer  can  I  rarely  tarry, 

Save  to  patter  an  Are  Mary 
When  I  ride  on  a  Border  foray.” 

The  cathedral  dates  from  the  time  of  Wil¬ 
liam  Rufus,  and  still  retains  two  bays  of  its 
Norman  nave,  which  suffered  from  fire  in 
the  early  part  of  the  thirteenth  century.  A 
still  more  disastrous  fire,  toward  the  close  of 
that  century,  all  but  destroyed  the  new  choir, 
which  it  took  the  preoccupied  citizens  one 
hundred  years  to  rebuild,  so  that  we  see  to¬ 
day  Early  English  arches  in  combination  with 
Decorated  pillars  and  Late  Decorated  capitals. 
These  capitals  of  fresh  and  piquant  designs 
are  an  especial  feature  of  the  choir,  whose 
prime  glory,  however,  is  the  great  east  window 
with  its  perfect  tracery,  although  only  the 
upper  glass  is  old.  The  cathedral  has  suf- 

27 


THE  BORDER 


fered  not  alone  from  a  series  of  fires,  but  from 
military  desecration.  Part  of  its  nave  was 
pulled  down  by  the  irreverent  Roundheads 
to  repair  the  fortifications,  and  it  was  used 
after  Carlisle  was  retaken  from  Prince  Charlie 
as  a  prison  for  the  garrison.  Even  to-day 
canny  Cumberland  shows  a  grain  too  much 
of  frugality  in  pasturing  sheep  in  the  cathe¬ 
dral  graveyard.  Carlisle  Cathedral  has  num¬ 
bered  among  its  archdeacons  Paley  of  the 
“Evidences,”  and  among  its  archdeans  Percy 
of  the  “Reliques.”  Among  its  bridegrooms 
was  Walter  Scott,  who  wedded  here  his  raven- 
haired  lady  of  the  Popping  Stones. 

One  drive  more  before  we  seek  the  Lake 
Country,  —  ten  miles  to  the  north,  this  time, 
across  the  adventurous  Esk,  where  a  fierce 
wind  seemed  to  carry  in  it  the  shout  of  old 
slogans  and  the  clash  and  clang  of  arms,  and 
across  the  boundary  stream,  the  Sark,  to 
Gretna  Green,  where  breathless  couples  used 
to  be  married  by  blacksmith  or  innkeeper 
or  the  first  man  they  met,  the  furious  parents 
posting  after  all  in  vain.  Then  around  by 
Longtown  we  drove  and  back  to  Carlisle, 
across  the  Solway  Moss,  —  reaches  of  blow¬ 
ing  grass  in  the  foreground;  dark,  broken 

28 


THE  BORDER 


bogs,  where  men  and  women  were  gathering 
in  the  peat,  in  the  middle  distance;  and  be¬ 
yond,  the  blue  folds  of  hills  on  hills.  It  was 
already  evening,  but  such  was  the  witchery 
of  the  scene,  still  with  something  eerie  and 
lawless  about  it  despite  an  occasional  farm¬ 
house  with  stuffed  barns  and  plump  ricks  and 
meadows  of  unmolested  kine,  that  we  would 
gladly,  like  the  old  Borderers  whose  armorial 
bearings  so  frequently  included  stars  and 
crescents,  have  spent  the  night  in  that  De¬ 
batable  Land,  with  the  moon  for  our  accom¬ 
plice  in  moss- trooping. 


29 


THE  LAKE  COUNTRY 


THERE  are  as  many  “best  ways”  of 
making  the  tour  of  this  enchanted  land 
as  there  are  Lake  Country  guidebooks, 
volumes  which,  at  prices  varying  from  ten 
shillings  to  “tuppence,”  are  everywhere  in 
evidence.  One  may  journey  by  rail  to  Kes¬ 
wick  or  to  Windermere;  one  may  come  up 
from  Furness  Abbey  to  Lakeside,  passing 
gradually  from  the  softer  scenery  to  the  wilder ; 
or  one  may  enter  by  way  of  Penrith  and  Pooley 
Bridge,  ushered  at  once  into  the  presence  of 
some  of  the  noblest  mountains  and  perhaps 
the  loveliest  lake. 

This  last  was  our  route,  and  very  satis¬ 
factory  we  found  it.  Our  stay  at  Penrith 
had  been  abbreviated  by  a  municipal  coun¬ 
cillors’  convention  which  left  not  a  bed  for 
the  stranger.  We  had  been  forewarned  of 
the  religious  convention  which  throngs  Kes¬ 
wick  the  last  full  week  in  July,  and,  indeed, 
an  evangelist  bound  thither  had  presented 

30 


THE  LAKE  COUNTRY 


us  with  tracts  as  we  took  our  train  at  Carlisle. 
But  we  had  not  reckoned  on  finding  Penrith 
in  such  plethoric  condition,  and,  after  an  up¬ 
hill  look  at  the  broken  red  walls  of  Penrith 
Castle,  which,  with  Carlisle,  Naworth,  and 
Cockermouth,  stood  for  the  defence  of  western 
England  against  the  Scots,  we  mounted  a 
motor-bus,  of  all  atrocities,  and  were  banged 
and  clanged  along  a  few  miles  of  fairly  level 
road  which  transferred  us,  as  we  crossed  the 
Eamont,  from  Cumberland  to  Westmore¬ 
land.  The  hamlet  of  Pooley  Bridge  lies 
at  the  lower  end  of  Ullswater,  up  whose 
mountain-hemmed  reaches  of  ever- heighten¬ 
ing  beauty  we  were  borne  by  The  Raven,  a 
leisurely  little  steamer  with  a  ruddy  captain 
serenely  assured  that  his  lake  is  the  queen  of 
all.  The  evening  was  cold  and  gusty,  — 
rougher  weather  than  any  we  had  encoun¬ 
tered  in  our  midsummer  voyage  across  the 
Atlantic,  —  but,  wrapped  in  our  rugs  and 
shedding  hairpins  down  the  wind,  we  could 
have  sailed  on  forever,  so  glorious  was  that 
sunset  vision  of  great  hills  almost  bending  over 
the  riverlike  lake  that  runs  on  joyously,  as  from 
friend  to  friend,  between  the  guardian  ranks. 

We  lingered  for  a  few  days  at  the  head  of 
31 


THE  LAKE  COUNTRY 


Ullswater,  in  Patterdale,  and  would  gladly 
have  lingered  longer,  if  only  to  watch  the  play 
of  light  and  shadow  over  St.  Sunday  Crag, 
Place  Fell,  Stybarrow  Crag,  Fairfield,  and  all 
that  shouldering  brotherhood  of  giants,  but 
we  must  needs  take  advantage  of  the  first 
clear  day  for  the  coach-drive  to  Ambleside, 
over  the  Kirkstone  Pass, 

“  Aspiring  Road!  that  lov’st  to  hide 
Thy  daring  in  a  vapoury  bourn.” 

A  week  at  Ambleside,  under  WansfelPs 
“visionary  majesties  of  light,”  went  all  too 
swiftly  in  the  eager  exploration  of  Grasmere 
and  Coniston,  Hawkshead,  Bowness,  Winder- 
mere,  and  those  “lofty  brethren,”  the  Lang- 
dale  Pikes,  with  their  famous  rock-walled 
cascade.  Dungeon  Ghyll.  The  coach- drive 
from  Ambleside  to  Keswick  carried  us,  at 
Dunmailraise,  across  again  from  Westmore¬ 
land  to  Cumberland.  Helvellyn  and  Thirl- 
mere  dominated  the  way,  but  Skiddaw  and 
Derwent  Water  claimed  our  allegiance  on 
arrival.  What  is  counted  the  finest  coach- 
drive  in  the  kingdom,  however,  the  twenty- 
four-mile  circuit  from  Keswick  known  as  the 
Buttermere  Round,  remained  to  bring  us 

32 


THE  LAKE  COUNTRY 


under  a  final  subjection  to  the  silver  solitude 
of  Buttermere  and  Crummock  Water  and  the 
rugged  menace  of  Honister  Crag.  The  train 
that  hurried  us  from  Keswick  to  Cocker- 
mouth  passed  along  the  western  shore  of 
pleasant  Bassenth  waite  Water,  but  from 
Workington  to  Furness  Abbey  meres  and 
tarns,  for  all  their  romantic  charm,  were  for¬ 
gotten,  while,  the  salt  wind  on  our  faces,  we 
looked  out,  over  sand  and  shingle,  on  the  dim 
grey  vast  of  ocean. 

The  Lake  Country,  it  is  often  said,  has  no 
history.  The  tourist  need  not  go  from  point 
to  point  enquiring 

“If  here  a  warrior  left  a  spell, 

Panting  for  glory  as  lie  fell; 

Or  here  a  saint  expired.” 

That  irregular  circle  of  the  Cumberland 
Hills,  varying  from  some  forty  to  fifty  miles 
in  diameter,  a  compact  mass  whose  moun¬ 
tain  lines  shut  in  narrow  valleys,  each  with 
its  own  lake,  and  radiate  out  from  Helvellyn 
in  something  like  a  starfish  formation,  bears, 
for  all  its  wildness,  the  humanised  look  of 
land  on  which  many  generations  of  men  have 
lived  and  died;  but  the  records  of  that  life 
are  scant. 

3 


33 


THE  LAKE  COUNTRY 


There  are  several  stone- circles,  taken  to  be 
the  remains  of  British  temples,  the  “mystic 
Round  of  Druid  frame,”  notably  Long  Meg 
and  her  Daughters,  near  Penrith,  and  the 
Druid’s  Circle,  just  out  of  Keswick.  About 
the  Keswick  circle  such  uncanny  influences 
still  linger  that  no  two  persons  can  number 
the  stones  alike,  nor  will  your  own  second 
count  confirm  your  first.  Storm  and  flood 
rage  against  that  mysterious  shrine,  but  the 
wizard  blocks  cannot  be  swept  away.  The 
Romans,  who  had  stations  near  Kendal,  Pen¬ 
rith,  and  Ambleside,  have  left  some  striking 
remembrances,  notably  “that  lone  Camp  on 
Hardknott’s  height,”  and  their  proud  road, 
still  well  defined  for  at  least  fifteen  miles, 
along  the  top  of  High  Street  ridge.  A  storied 
heap  of  stones  awaits  the  climber  at  the  top  of 

“The  long  ascent  of  Dunmailraise.” 

Here,  in  945,  the  last  king  of  the  Cumbrian 
Britons,  Dunmail,  was  defeated  by  Edmund 
of  England  in  the  pass  between  Grasmere 
and  Keswick.  Seat  Sandal  and  Steel  Fell 
looked  down  from  either  side  upon  his  fall. 
Edmund  raised  a  cairn  above  what  his  Saxon 
wits  supposed  was  a  slain  king,  but  Dunmail 

34 


THE  LAKE  COUNTRY 


is  only  biding  his  time.  His  golden  crown 
was  hurled  into  Grisedale  Tarn,  high  up  in 
the  range,  where  the  shoulders  of  Helvellyn, 
Seat  Sandal,  and  Fairfield  touch,  and  on  the 
last  night  of  every  year  these  dark  warders 
see  a  troop  of  Dunmail’s  men  rise  from  the 
tarn,  where  it  is  their  duty  to  guard  the  crown, 
bearing  one  more  stone  to  throw  down  upon 
the  cairn.  When  the  pile  is  high  enough  to 
content  the  king,  who  counts  each  year  in  his 
deep  grave  the  crash  of  another  falling  stone, 
he  will  rise  and  rule  again  over  Cumberland. 

Here  history  and  folk-lore  blend.  Of  pure 
folk-lore  the  stranger  hears  but  little.  Eden 
Hall,  near  Penrith,  has  a  goblet  filched  from 
the  fairies: 

“If  e’er  this  glass  should  break  or  fall. 

Farewell  the  luck  of  Eden  Hall.” 

The  enchanted  rock  in  the  Vale  of  St.  John 
is  celebrated  in  Scott’s  “Bridal  of  Triermain.’’ 
St.  Bees  has  a  triumphant  tradition  of  St. 
Bega,  who,  determined  to  be  a  nun,  ran  away 
from  the  Irish  king,  her  father,  for  no  better 
reason  than  because  he  meant  to  marry  her 
to  a  Norwegian  prince,  and  set  sail  in  a  fishing- 
boat  for  the  Cumberland  coast.  Her  little 

35 


THE  LAKE  COUNTRY 


craft  was  driven  in  by  the  storm  to  White¬ 
haven,  where  she  so  won  upon  the  sympathies 
of  the  Countess  of  Egremont  that  this  lady 
besought  her  lord  to  give  the  fugitive  land 
for  a  convent.  It  was  midsummer,  and  the 
graceless  husband  made  answer  that  he  would 
give  as  much  as  the  snow  should  lie  upon  next 
morning,  but  when  he  awoke  and  looked  out 
from  the  castle  casement,  his  demesne  for 
three  miles  around  was  white  with  snow. 

Wordsworth’s  “Song  at  the  Feast  of 
Brougham  Castle,”  “The  Horn  of  Egremont 
Castle,”  and  “The  Somnambulist”  relate 
three  legends  of  the  region,  of  varying  de¬ 
grees  of  authenticity,  and  Lord’s  Island  in 
Derwent  Water  brings  to  mind  the  right 
noble  name  of  James  Radcliffe,  third  and 
last  Earl  of  Derwentwater,  who  declared  for 
his  friend  and  kinsman,  the  Pretender  of 
1715.  On  October  sixth  the  young  earl 
bade  his  brave  girl-wife  farewell  and  rode 
away  to  join  the  rebels,  though  his  favourite 
dog  howled  in  the  courtyard  and  his  dapple- 
grey  started  back  from  the  gate.  On  Oc¬ 
tober  fourteenth  the  cause  was  lost,  and 
the  Earl  of  Derwentwater  was  among  the 
seventeen  hundred  who  surrendered  at  Pres- 

36 


THE  LAKE  COUNTRY 


ton.  In  the  Tower  and  again  on  the  scaf¬ 
fold  his  life  was  offered  him  if  he  would 
acknowledge  George  I  as  rightful  king  and 
would  conform  to  the  Protestant  religion, 
but  he  said  it  “  would  be  too  dear  a  purchase.” 
On  the  evening  after  his  beheading  the 
Northern  Lights  flamed  red  over  Keswick, 
so  that  they  are  still  known  in  the  country¬ 
side  as  Lord  Derwentwater’s  Lights. 

The  dalesfolk  could  doubtless  tell  us  more. 
There  may  still  be  dwellers  by  Windermere 
who  have  heard  on  stormy  nights  the  ghastly 
shrieks  of  the  Crier  of  Claife,  calling  across 
the  lake  for  a  ferry-boat,  although  it  was  'ong 
ago  that  a  valiant  monk  from  Lady  Holm 
“laid”  that  troubled  spirit,  binding  it,  with 
book  and  bell,  to  refrain  from  troubling  “  while 
ivy  is  green”;  and  in  the  depths  of  Borrow- 
dale,  on  a  wild  dawn,  old  people  may  cower 
deeper  in  their  feather  beds  to  shut  out  the 
baying  of  the  phantom  hounds  that  hunt  the 
“barfoot  stag”  through  Watendlath  tarn  and 
over  the  fells  down  into  Borrowdale.  There 
is  said  to  be  a  local  brownie,  IIob-Thross  by 
name,  sometimes  seen,  a  “body  aw  ower 
rough,”  lying  by  the  fire  at  midnight.  For 
all  his  shaggy  look,  he  has  so  sensitive  a  spirit 

37 


THE  LAKE  COUNTRY 


that,  indefatigable  though  he  is  in  stealthy 
household  services,  the  least  suggestion  of 
recompense  sends  him  weeping  away.  He 
will  not  even  accept  his  daily  dole  of  milk 
save  on  the  condition  that  it  be  set  out  for 
him  in  a  chipped  bowl. 

But,  in  the  main,  the  Lake  Country  keeps 
its  secrets.  The  names  are  the  telltales,  and 
these  speak  of  Briton  and  Saxon  and  the  ad¬ 
venturous  Viking.  Dale,  jell,  force  (water¬ 
fall),  ghyll  (mountain  ravine),  holm  (island), 
ho*”  (mound),  scar  (cliff-face),  are  Icelandic 
wprds.  Mountain  names  that  seem  undigni¬ 
fied,  as  Coniston  Old  Man  or  Dolly  Wagon 
Pike,  are  probably  mispronunciations  of  what 
in  the  original  Celtic  or  Scandinavian  was  of 
grave  import.  There  appears  to  be  a  present 
tendency  to  substitute  for  the  unintelligible 
old  names  plain  English  terms  usually  sug¬ 
gested  by  some  peculiarity  in  the  moun¬ 
tain  shape,  but  it  is  a  pity  to  give  up  the 
Celtic  Blencathara,  Peak  of  Demons,  for 
Saddleback. 

The  jubilant  throngs  who  flock  to  Lake¬ 
land  every  summer  concern  themselves  little 
with  its  early  history.  The  English  pour  into 
that  blessed  circuit  of  hills  as  into  a  great  play- 

38 


THE  LAKE  COUNTRY 


ground,  coaching,  walking,  cycling,  climbing, 
boating,  keenly  alive  to  the  beauty  of  the 
scenery  and  eagerly  drinking  in  the  exhil¬ 
aration  of  the  air.  They  love  to  tread  the 
loftiest  crests,  many  of  which  are  crowned 
with  cairns  raised  by  these  holiday  climb¬ 
ers,  each  adding  his  own  stone.  But  it  is 
the  shepherd  who  is  in  the  confidence  of 
the  mountains,  he  who  has 

“been  alone 

Amid  the  heart  of  many  thousand  mists. 

That  came  to  him,  and  left  him,  on  the  heights.” 

Wordsworth  first  learned  to  love  humanity 
in  the  person  of  the  shepherd 

“descried  in  distant  sky, 

A  solitary  object  and  sub'ime.” 

Sheep,  too,  are  often  seen  against  the  sky-line, 
and  even  the  cow  —  that  homelike  beast  who 
favours  you  in  her  innocent  rudeness,  from  the 
gap  of  a  hawthorn  hedge,  with  that  same  pro¬ 
longed,  rustic,  curious  stare  that  has  taxed 
your  modesty  in  Vermont  or  Ohio  —  will  for¬ 
sake  the  shade  of  “the  honied  sycamore”  in 
the  valley  for  summits 

“sharp  and  bare, 

Where  oft  the  venturous  heifer  drinks  the  noontide  breeze.” 

89 


THE  LAKE  COUNTRY 


There  have  been  fatal  accidents  upon  the 
more  precipitous  peaks.  Scott  and  Words¬ 
worth  have  sung  the  fate  of  that  “young  lover 
of  Nature,”  Charles  Gough,  who,  one  hun¬ 
dred  years  ago,  fell  from  the  Striding  Edge 
of  Helvellyn  and  was  watched  over  in  death 
for  no  less  than  three  months  by  his  little 
yellow-haired  terrier,  there  on  the  lonely 
banks  of  Red  Tarn,  where  her  persistent 
barking  at  last  brought  shepherds  to  the  body. 
In  the  Patterdale  churchyard,  whose  famous 
great  yew  is  now  no  more,  we  noticed  a  stone 
commemorating  a  more  recent  victim  of  Hel¬ 
vellyn,  a  Manchester  botanist,  who  had  come 
summer  by  summer  to  climb  the  mountain, 
and  who,  a  few  years  since,  on  his  last  essay, 
a  man  of  seventy- three,  had  died  from  ex¬ 
haustion  during  the  ascent.  The  brow  of 
Helvellyn,  now  soft  and  silvery  as  a  melting 
dream,  now  a  dark  mass  banded  by  broad 
rainbows,  overlooks  his  grave. 

I  remember  that  Nathan’s  story  of  the  rich 
man  who  “had  no  pity,”  but  took  for  a  guest’s 
dinner  the  “one  little  ewe  lamb”  of  his  poor 
neighbour,  was  read  in  the  Patterdale  church 
that  evensong,  and  it  was  strange  to  see  how 
intently  those  sturdy  mountain-lads,  their 

40 


THE  LAKE  COUNTRY 


alert-eyed  sheep  dogs  waiting  about  the  door, 
listened  to  the  parable.  Not  only  does  the 
Scripture  imagery  —  “The  Lord  is  my  shep¬ 
herd;  I  shall  not  want”  —  but  the  phrasing 
of  the  prayerbook  —  “  We  have  erred  and 
strayed  from  Thy  ways  like  lost  sheep”  — 
come  with  enhanced  significance  in  a  pastoral 
region. 

Lakeland  in  the  tourist  season  is  not  at  its 
best  in  point  of  flowers.  The  daffodils  that 
in  Gowbarrow  Park  —  recently  acquired  and 
opened  as  a  national  preserve  —  rejoiced  the 
poet  as  they  danced  beside  the  dancing  waves 
of  Ullswater,  fade  before  July,  and  the  patches 
of  ling  and  heather  upon  the  mountain  sides 
lack  the  abundance  that  purples  the  Scottish 
hills,  but  the  delicate  harebell  nods  blithely 
to  the  wayfarer  from  up  among  the  rocks,  and 
the  foxglove  grows  so  tall,  especially  in  the 
higher  passes,  as  to  overtop  those  massive 
boundaries  into  which  the  “wallers”  pack 
away  all  the  loose  stone  they  can. 

Birds,  too,  are  not,  in  midsummer,  numer¬ 
ous  or  varied.  Where  are  Wordsworth’s 
cuckoo  and  skylark  and  green  linnet  ?  The 
eagles  have  been  dislodged  from  their  eyries 
on  Eagle  Crag.  A  heavily  flapping  raven, 

41 


THE  LAKE  COUNTRY 


a  congregation  of  rooks,  a  few  swallows  and 
redbreasts,  with  perhaps  a  shy  wagtail,  may 
be  the  only  winged  wanderers  you  will  salute 
in  an  hour’s  stroll,  unless  this,  as  is  most  likely, 
has  brought  you  where 

“plots  of  sparkling  water  tremble  bright 
With  thousand  thousand  twinkling  points  of  light.” 

There  you  will  be  all  but  sure  to  see  your 
Atlantic  friends,  the  seagulls,  circling  slowly 
within  the  mountain  barriers  like  prisoners 
of  the  air  and  adding  their  floating  shadows 
to  the  reflections  in  the  lake  below.  For,  as 
Wordsworth  notes,  —  what  did  Wordsworth 
fail  to  note  ?  —  the  water  of  these  mountain 
meres  is  crystal  clear  and  renders  back  with 
singular  exactitude  the  “many-coloured  im¬ 
ages  imprest”  upon  it. 

But  the  life  of  the  Cumbrian  hills  is  the  life 
of  grazing  flocks,  of  leaping  waterfalls  and 
hidden  streams  with  their  “voice  of  unpre¬ 
tending  harmony,”  —  the  life  of  sun  and 
shadow.  Sometimes  the  sky  is  of  a  faint, 
sweet  blue  with  white  clouds  wandering  in 
it,  —  the  old  Greek  myth  of  Apollo’s  herds 
in  violet  meadows;  sometimes  the  keenest 
radiance  silvers  the  upper  crest  of  cumuli  that 

42 


THE  LAKE  COUNTRY 


copy  in  form  the  massy  summits  below;  some¬ 
times  the  mellow  sunset  gold  is  poured  into 
the  valleys  as  into  thirsty  cups ;  but  most  often 
curling  mists  wreathe  the  mountain- tops  and 
move  in  plumed  procession  along  their  naked 
sides. 

The  scenic  effects  and  the  joy  of  climbing 
are  not  lost  by  American  tourists,  yet  these, 
as  a  rule,  come  to  the  Lake  Country  in  a 
temper  quite  unlike  that  of  the  English  holi¬ 
day  seekers.  We  come  as  pilgrims  to  a  Holy 
Land  of  Song.  We  depend  perhaps  too  little 
upon  our  own  immediate  sense  of  grandeur 
and  beauty,  and  look  perhaps  too  much  to 
Wordsworth  to  interpret  for  us  “Nature’s 
old  felicities.”  The  Lake  Country  that  has 
loomed  so  large  in  poetry  may  even  disap¬ 
point  us  at  the  outset.  The  memory  of  the 
Rockies,  of  our  chain  of  Great  Lakes,  of 
Niagara,  may  disconcert  our  first  impres¬ 
sions  of  this  clump  of  hills  with  only  four, 
Scafell  Pike,  Scafell,  Ilelvellyn,  and  Skiddaw, 
exceeding  three  thousand  feet  in  height; 
of  lakes  that  range  from  Windermere,  ten 
miles  long  and  a  mile  broad,  to  the  reedy  little 
pond  of  Rydal  Water,  more  conventionally 
termed  “a  fairy  mere”;  of  waterfalls  that  are 

43 


THE  LAKE  COUNTRY 


often  chiefly  remarkable,  even  Southey’s  Lo- 
dore,  for  their  lack  of  water.  Scales  Tarn, 
of  which  Scott  wrote, 

“Never  sunbeam  could  discern 
The  surface  of  that  sable  tarn, 

In  whose  black  mirror  you  may  spy 
The  stars,  while  noontide  lights  the  sky,” 

is  seventeen  feet  deep. 

It  is  all  in  proportion,  all  picturesque,  — 
almost  in  too  regular  proportion,  almost  too 
conspicuously  picturesque,  as  if  it  had  been 
expressly  gotten  up  for  the  “  tripper.”  There 
is  nothing  of  primeval  wildness  about  it.  Na¬ 
ture  is  here  the  lion  tamed,  an  accredited 
human  playmate.  Indeed,  one  almost  feels 
that  here  is  Nature  sitting  for  her  portrait, 
a  self-conscious  Nature  holding  her  court  of 
tourists  and  poets.  Yet  this  is  but  a  fleeting 
and  a  shamefaced  mood.  It  takes  intimacy 
to  discover  the  fact  of  reticence,  and  those  are 
aliens  indeed  who  think  that  a  single  coach - 
drive,  even  the  boasted  “circular  tour,”  has 
acquainted  them  with  the  Lake  Country,  — 
yes,  though  they  trudge  over  the  passes  (for 
it  is  coach  etiquette  to  put  the  passengers 
down  whenever  the  road  gets  steep)  Words¬ 
worth  in  hand.  In  truth,  the  great  amount 

44 


ISLAND  IN  (JRASMERE  LAKE 


THE  LAKE  COUNTRY 


of  literary  association  may  be  to  the  con¬ 
scientious  “Laker”  something  of  a  burden. 
Skiddaw  thrusts  forth  his  notched  contour 
with  the  insistent  question:  “What  was  it 
Wordsworth  said  about  me?”  Ennerdale 
church  and  the  Pillar  Rock  tax  one’s  memory 
of  “The  Brothers,”  and  every  stone  sheep- 
fold  calls  for  a  recitation  from  “Michael.” 
That  “cradled  nursling  of  the  mountain,” 
the  river  Duddon,  expects  one  to  know  by 
heart  the  thirty-four  sonnets  recording  how 
the  pedestrian  poet 

“accompanied  with  faithful  pace 
Caerulean  Duddon  from  its  cloud-fed  spring.” 

The  footpath  you  follow,  the  rock  you  rest 
upon,  the  yew  you  turn  to  admire,  Wishing- 
Gate  and  Stepping-Stones  admonish  you  to 
be  ready  with  your  quotation.  Even  the  tiny 
cascade  of  Rydal  Water  —  so  small  as  pre¬ 
sumably  to  be  put  to  bed  at  six  o’clock,  for  it 
may  not  be  visited  after  that  hour  —  has  been 
sung  by  the  Grasmere  laureate.  While  your 
care- free  Englishman  goes  clambering  over 
the  golden- mossed  rocks  and  far  within  the 
slippery  recesses  of  Dungeon  Ghyll,  your 
serious  American  will  sit  him  down  amid  the 

45 


THE  LAKE  COUNTRY 


bracken  and,  tranquilly  watched  by  Ling- 
moor  from  across  the  vale,  read  “The  Idle 
Shepherd-Boys,”  and  the  exquisite  descrip¬ 
tion  of  the  scene  in  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward’s 
“Fenwick’s  Career.”  If  he  can  recall  Cole¬ 
ridge’s  lines  about  the  “  sinful  sextons’  ghosts,” 
so  much  the  better,  and  if  he  is  of  a  “thor¬ 
ough  ”  habit  of  mind,  he  will  have  read 
through  Wordsworth’s  “Excursion”  in  prep¬ 
aration  for  this  expedition  to  the  Lang- 
dales  and  be  annotating  the  volume  on  his 
knee. 

There  may  be  something  a  little  naive  about 
this  studious  attitude  in  the  presence  of  natural 
beauty,  but  the  devotion  is  sincere.  Many 
a  tourist,  English  and  American,  comes  to 
the  Lake  Country  to  render  grateful  homage 
to  those  starry  spirits  who  have  clustered 
there.  Fox  Ilowe,  the  home  of  Dr.  Arnold 
and  dear  to  his  poet  son;  The  Knoll,  home 
of  Harriet  Martineau;  and  the  Dove’s  Nest, 
for  a  little  while  the  abode  of  Mrs.  Hemans, 
are  duly  pointed  out  at  Ambleside,  but  not 
all  who  linger  in  that  picture-book  village  and 
climb  the  hill  to  the  Church  of  St.  Anne,  stand¬ 
ing  serene  with  its  square,  grey,  pigeon- 
peopled  tower,  know  that  Faber  was  a  curate 

4G 


THE  LAKE  COUNTRY 


there  in  the  youthful  years  before  he  “went 
over  to  Rome.”  He  lived  hard  by  in  what 
is  said  to  be  the  oldest  house  in  Ambleside, 
once  a  manor-house  of  distinction,  —  that 
long,  low  stone  building  with  small,  deep-set 
windows  and  the  cheery  touches  of  colour 
given  by  the  carefully  tended  flowers  about  the 
doors.  “A  good  few”  people  thought  he  was 
not  “just  bright,”  our  landlady  told  us,  “be¬ 
cause  he  would  be  walking  with  his  head 
down,  busy  at  his  thoughts,”  yet  Wordsworth 
said  that  Faber  was  the  only  man  he  knew 
who  saw  more  things  in  Nature  than  he  did 
in  a  country  ramble.  Bowness  cherishes 
recollections  of  the  gay,  audacious  doings  of 
Professor  Wilson  (Christopher  North),  and 
Troutbeck  plumes  itself  on  being  the  birth¬ 
place  of  Hogarth’s  father.  Keswick,  where 
Shelley  once  made  brief  sojourn,  holds  the 
poet-dust  of  Southey  and  of  Frederic  Myers, 
and  in  Crosthwaite  Vicarage  may  be  found 
a  living  poet  of  the  Lakes,  Canon  Rawnsley, 
—  a  name  to  conjure  with  throughout  the 
district,  whose  best  traditions  he  fosters  and 
maintains. 

Opposite  Rydal  Mount,  at  Nab  Cottage, 
dwelt,  for  the  closing  years  of  his  clouded  life, 

47 


THE  LAKE  COUNTRY 


tlie  darling  of  the  dalesfolk,  “  Li’le  Hartley,” 
first-born  son  of  Coleridge,  —  that  boy  “so 
exquisitely  wild"  to  whom  had  descended 
something  of  his  father’s  genius  crossed  by 
the  father’s  frailty.  Hartley’s  demon  was 
not  the  craving  for  opium,  but  for  alcohol. 
After  a  sore  struggle  that  crippled  but  did 
not  destroy,  he  rests  in  Grasmere  churchyard, 
his  stone  bearing  the  inscription,  “By  Thy 
Cross  and  Passion.”  It  was  from  Nab  Cot¬ 
tage  that  another  soul  of  high  endowment, 
menaced  by  the  opium  lust,  De  Quincey,  took 
a  bride,  Margaret,  a  farmer’s  daughter,  who 
made  him  the  strong  and  patient  wife  his  peril 
needed.  They  dwelt  in  Dove  Cottage  at 
Townend,  Grasmere,  the  hallowed  garden- 
nest  where  Wordsworth  and  his  wife  and  his 
sister  Dorothy  —  that  ardent  spirit  the 
thought  of  whom  is  still  “  like  a  flash  of  light  ” 
—  had  dwelt  before.  Wordsworth’s  later 
homes  at  Allan  Bank,  the  Grasmere  Rectory, 
and  even  at  Rydal  Mount  are  less  precious 
to  memory  than  this,  where  he  and  Coleridge 
and  Dorothy  dreamed  the  great  dreams  of 
youth  together.  Thither  came  guests  who 
held  high  converse  over  frugal  fare,  —  among 
them  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Charles  Lamb,  “the 

48 


THE  LAKE  COUNTRY 


frolic  and  the  gentle,”  and  that  silent  poet, 
the  beloved  brother  John.  It  was  a  plain  and 
thrifty  life  that  Dove  Cottage  knew,  with  its 
rustic  little  rooms  and  round  of  household 
tasks,  but  thrift  took  on  magic  powers  in  the 
Lake  Country  a  century  ago.  Amazing  tales 
are  told  of  the  “Wonderful  Walker,”  school¬ 
master  of  Buttermere  and  curate  of  Seath- 
waite,  the  Pastor  of  the  “Excursion,”  but 
his  feats  of  economy  might  be  challenged  by 
the  old-time  curate  of  Patterdale,  who,  on 
an  income  of  from  sixty  to  ninety  dollars  a 
year,  lived  comfortably,  educated  his  four 
children,  and  left  them  a  tidy  little  for¬ 
tune.  Such  queer  turns  of  fate  were  his  that 
he  published  his  own  banns  and  married  his 
father. 

Most  of  those  for  whose  sake  the  Lake 
Country  is  holy  ground  lived  a  contemplative, 
sequestered  life  akin  to  that  of  the  mediaeval 
monks,  the  scholars  and  visionaries  of  a  fight¬ 
ing  world;  but  Coniston,  on  the  edge  of 
Lancashire,  is  the  shrine  of  a  warrior  saint, 
Ruskin.  His  last  earthly  home,  Brantwood, 
looks  out  over  Coniston  Water,  and  his 
grave  in  the  quiet  churchyard,  for  which 
Westminster  Abbey  was  refused,  is  beauti- 
4  1  49 


THE  LAKE  COUNTRY 


fully  marked  by  a  symbolically  carven  cross 
quarried  from  the  fine  greenstone  of  Coniston 
Fells.  In  the  Ruskin  Museum  may  be  seen 
many  heart-moving  memorials  of  that  hero 
life,  all  the  way  from  the  abstracts  of  sermons 
written  out  for  his  mother  in  a  laborious 
childish  hand  to  the  purple  pall,  worked  for 
him  by  the  local  Linen  Industry  he  so  eagerly 
founded,  and  embroidered  with  his  own 
words:  “Unto  This  Last.” 

Not  in  any  roll-call  of  the  men  of  letters 
who  have  trodden  the  Cumbrian  Hills  should 
the  poet  Gray  be  forgotten.  The  first  known 
tourist  in  the  Lake  Country,  he  was  delighted 
with  Grasmere  and  Keswick,  but  Borrow- 
dale,  plunged  deep  amid  what  the  earliest 
guide-book,  that  of  West  in  1774,  was  to  de¬ 
scribe  as  “the  most  horrid  romantic  moun¬ 
tains,”  turned  him  back  in  terror. 

Yet  Wordsworth,  for  all  his  illustrious  com¬ 
peers,  is  still  the  presiding  genius  of  these 
opalescent  hills  and  silver  meres.  It  is  to 
him,  that  shy,  ungainly  man  who  used  to  go 
“booing”  his  verses  along  these  very  roads, 
that  multitudes  of  visitants  have  owed 

“  Feelings  and  emanations  —  things  which  were 
Light  to  the  sun  and  music  to  the  wind.” 

50 


THE  LAKE  COUNTRY 


It  is  good  for  the  soul  to  follow  that  sane,  pure 
life  from  its  “fair  seedtime”  on  the  garden 
terrace  at  Cockermouth,  where  the  murmur¬ 
ing  Derwent  gave 

“Amid  the  fretful  dwellings  of  mankind, 

A  foretaste,  a  dim  earnest,  of  the  calm 

That  Nature  breathes  among  the  hills  and  groves,” 

through  the  boyhood  at  Hawkshead  —  that 
criss-cross  little  huddle  of  houses  near  Esth- 
waite  Water  —  a  boyhood  whose  inner  growth 
is  so  marvellously  portrayed  in  “The  Prel¬ 
ude,”  on  through  the  long  and  fruitful  man¬ 
hood  of  a  poet  vowed, 

“Days  of  sweet  leisure,  taxed  with  patient  thought 
Abstruse,  nor  wanting  punctual  service  high, 

Matins  and  vespers  of  harmonious  verse,” 

to  the  churchyard  beside  the  Rotha,  where 
Wordsworth  and  his  kin  of  flesh  and  spirit 
keep  their  “incommunicable  sleep.” 


“Blessing  be  with  them,  and  eternal  praise!” 


THREE  RUSH-BEARINGS 


Where  is  the  stranger ?  Rushes,  ladies,  rushes, 
Rushes  as  green  as  summer  for  this  stranger. 

Fletcher’s  “  Valentinian.” 


I 


WE  heard  about  it  first  in  Ambleside. 

We  were  in  lodgings  half-way  up  the 
hill  that  leads  to  the  serene,  for¬ 
saken  Church  of  St.  Anne.  It  was  there  that 
Faber,  fresh  from  Oxford,  had  been  curate, 
silently  thinking  the  thoughts  that  were  to 
send  him  into  the  Roman  communion,  and 
his  young  ghost,  with  the  bowed  head  and 
the  troubled  eyes,  was  one  of  the  friends  we 
had  made  in  the  few  rainy  days  of  our  so¬ 
journ.  Another  was  Jock,  a  magnificent  old 
collie,  who  accepted  homage  as  his  royal  due, 
and  would  press  his  great  head  against  the 
knee  of  the  alien  with  confident  expectation 
of  a  caress,  lifting  in  recognition  a  long,  com¬ 
prehending  look  of  amber  eyes.  Another 
friend  —  though  our  relations  were  some- 

52 


t 


THREE  RUSH-BEARINGS 


times  strained  —  was  Toby,  a  piebald  pony 
of  piquant  disposition.  He  allowed  us  to  sit 
in  his  pony- cart  at  picturesque  spots  and  read 
the  Lake  Poets  to  him,  and  to  tug  him  up  the 
hills  by  his  bridle,  which  he  had  expert  ways 
of  rubbing  off,  to  the  joy  of  passing  coach¬ 
loads,  when  our  attention  was  diverted  to  the 
landscape.  Another  was  our  kindly  land¬ 
lady.  She  came  in  with  hot  tea  that  Satur¬ 
day  afternoon  to  cheer  up  the  adventurous 
member  of  the  party,  who  had  just  returned 
half  drowned  from  a  long  drive  on  coachtop 
for  the  sake  of  scenery  absolutely  blotted  out 
by  the  downpour.  There  the  pleasure- 
seekers  had  sat  for  hours,  under  trickling 
umbrellas,  while  the  inexorable  coachman 
put  them  off  every  now  and  then  to  clamber 
down  wet  banks  and  gaze  at  waterfalls,  or 
halted  for  the  due  five  minutes  at  a  point 
where  nothing  was  perceptible  but  the  grey 
slant  of  the  rain  to  assure  them  —  and  the 
spattered  red  guidebook  confirmed  his  state¬ 
ment  —  that  this  was  “  the  finest  view  in 
Westmoreland.”  So  when  our  landlady  be¬ 
gan  to  tell  us  of  the  ancient  ceremony  which 
the  village  was  to  observe  that  afternoon, 
the  bedrenched  one,  hugging  the  bright  dot 


THREE  RUSH-BEARINGS 


of  a  fire,  grimly  implied  that  the  customs 
and  traditions  of  this  sieve-skied  island  — 
in  five  weeks  we  had  had  only  two  rainless 
days  —  were  nothing  to  her;  but  the  tea, 
that  moral  beverage  which  enables  the  Eng¬ 
lish  to  bear  with  their  climate,  wrought  its 
usual  reformation. 

At  half- past  five  we  were  standing  under 
our  overworked  umbrellas  on  a  muddy  street 
corner,  waiting  for  the  procession  to  come 
by.  And  presently  it  came,  looking  very 
much  as  if  it  had  been  through  a  pond  to 
gather  the  rushes.  In  front  wrent  a  brass 
band,  splashing  along  the  puddles  to  merry 
music,  and  then  a  long  train  of  draggled  chil¬ 
dren,  with  a  few  young  men  and  maidens  to 
help  on  the  toddlers,  two  or  three  of  whom 
had  to  be  taken  up  and  carried,  flowTers  and 
all.  But  soberly  and  sturdily,  in  the  main, 
that  line  of  three  hundred  bonny  bairns 
trotted  along  through  the  heavy  clay,  under 
the  soft  rain  —  little  lads  in  rubber  coats  and 
gaiters,  some  holding  their  tall  bunches  of 
rushes,  or  elaborate  floral  designs,  upright 
before  them  like  bayonets,  some  shouldering 
them  like  guns;  tired  little  lassies  clasping 
their  “bearings”  in  their  arms  like  dolls,  or 


THREE  RUSH-BEARINGS 


dragging  them  along  like  kittens.  All  down 
the  line  the  small  coats  and  cloaks  were  not 
only  damp,  but  greened  and  mossed  and 
petal-strewn  from  the  resting  and  rubbing 
of  one  another’s  burdens.  These  were  of 
divers  sorts.  Most  effective  were  the  slender 
bundles  of  rushes,  —  long,  straight  rushes 
gathered  that  morning  from  the  meres  by 
men  who  went  out  in  boats  for  the  purpose. 
These  rush-fagots  towered  up  from  a  dis¬ 
tance  like  green  candles,  making  the  line  re¬ 
semble  a  procession  of  Catholic  fairies.  The 
village,  however,  took  chief  pride  in  the  moss- 
covered  standards  of  various  device  entwined 
with  rushes  and  flowers.  There  were  harps  of 
reeds  and  waterlilies,  crosses  of  ferns  and  hare¬ 
bells,  shepherds’  crooks  wound  with  heather, 
sceptres,  shields,  anchors,  crowns,  swords, 
stars,  triangles,  hearts,  with  all  manner  of 
nosegays  and  garlands.  Ling  and  bracken 
from  the  hillsides,  marigolds  from  the  marsh, 
spikes  of  oat  and  spears  of  wheat  from  the 
harvest- fields,  and  countless  bright- hued  blos¬ 
soms  from  meadow  and  dooryard  and  garden 
were  woven  together,  with  no  little  taste  and 
skill,  in  a  pretty  diversity  of  patterns. 

The  bells  rang  out  blithe  welcome  as  the 
55 


THREE  RUSH-BEARINGS 


procession  neared  the  steepled  Church  of  St. 
Mary,  where  a  committee  of  ladies  and  gen¬ 
tlemen  received  the  offerings  and  disposed 
them,  according  to  their  merit,  in  chancel  or 
aisles.  The  little  bearers  were  all  seated  in 
the  front  pews,  the  pews  of  honour,  before 
we  thronging  adults,  stacking  our  dripping 
umbrellas  in  the  porch,  might  enter.  The 
air  was  rich  with  mingled  fragrances.  Along 
the  chancel  rail,  in  the  window- seats,  on  the 
pillars,  everywhere,  were  rushes  and  flowers, 
the  choicest  garden-roses  whispering  with 
foxglove  and  daisy  and  the  feathered  timothy 
grass.  But  sweeter  than  the  blossoms  were 
the  faces  of  the  children,  glad  in  their  rustic 
act  of  worship,  well  content  with  their  own 
weariness,  no  prouder  than  the  smiling  angels 
would  have  had  them  be.  Only  here  and 
there  a  rosy  visage  was  clouded  with  disap¬ 
pointment,  or  twisted  ruefully  awry  in  the 
effort  to  hold  back  the  tears,  for  it  must  needs 
be  that  a  few  devices,  on  which  the  childish 
artists  had  spent  such  joyful  labour,  were  as¬ 
signed  by  the  expert  committee  to  incon¬ 
spicuous  corners.  The  mere  weans  behaved 
surprisingly  well,  though  evensong,  a  brief 
and  sympathetic  service,  was  punctuated  by 


THREE  RUSH-BEARIN GS 


little  sobs,  gleeful  baby  murmurs,  and  crows 
of  excitement.  The  vicar  told  the  children, 
in  a  few  simple  words,  how,  in  earlier  times, 
when  the  church  was  unpaved,  the  earth- 
floor  was  strewn  with  sweet-smelling  rushes, 
renewed  every  summer,  and  that  the  rushes 
and  flowers  of  to-day  were  brought  in  memory 
of  the  past,  and  in  gratitude  for  the  beauty  of 
their  home  among  the  hills  and  lakes.  Then 
the  fresh  child  voices  rang  out  singing  praises 
to  Him  who  made  it  all : 

“The  purple-headed  mountain. 

The  river  running  by. 

The  sunset,  and  the  morning 
That  brightens  up  the  sky.” 

They  sang,  too,  their  special  hymn  written 
for  the  Ambleside  rush-bearers  seventy  years 
ago,  by  the  well- beloved  vicar  of  Brathay,  the 
Rev.  Owen  Lloyd: 

“Our  fathers  to  the  house  of  God, 

As  yet  a  building  rude. 

Bore  offerings  from  the  flowery  sod, 

And  fragrant  rushes  strew’d. 


“These,  of  the  great  Redeemer’s  grace 
Bright  emblems,  here  are  seen; 

He  makes  to  smile  the  desert  place 
With  flowers  and  rushes  green.” 

57 


THREE  RUSH-BEARINGS 


One  highly  important  ceremony,  to  the 
minds  of  the  children,  was  yet  to  come,  —  the 
presentation  of  the  gingerbread.  As  they 
filed  out  of  the  church,  twopenny  slabs  of  a 
peculiarly  black  and  solid  substance  were 
given  into  their  eager  little  hands.  The  rain 
had  ceased,  and  we  grown-ups  all  waited  in 
the  churchyard,  looking  down  on  the  issuing 
file  of  red  tam-o’-shanters,  ribboned  straw 
hats,  worn  grey  caps,  and,  wavering  along  very 
low  in  the  line,  soft,  fair- tinted  baby  hoods, 
often  cuddled  up  against  some  guardian  knee. 
Under  the  varied  headgear  ecstatic  feasting 
had  begun  even  in  the  church  porch,  though 
some  of  the  children  were  too  entranced  with 
excitement  to  find  their  mouths.  One  chubby 
urchin  waved  his  piece  of  gingerbread  in  the 
air,  and  another  laid  his  on  a  gravestone  and 
inadvertently  sat  down  on  it.  A  bewildered 
wee  damsel  in  robin’s-egg  blue  had  lost  hers 
in  the  basket  of  wild  flowers  that  was  slung 
about  her  neck.  One  spud  of  a  boy,  roaring 
as  he  came,  was  wiping  his  eyes  with  his. 
In  general,  however,  the  rush- bearers  were 
munching  with  such  relish  that  they  did  not 
trouble  themselves  to  remove  the  tissue  pa¬ 
per  adhering  to  the  bottom  of  each  cake, 


THREE  RUSH-BEARINGS 


but  swallowed  that  as  contentedly  as  the  rest. 
Meanwhile  their  respective  adults  were  swoop¬ 
ing  down  upon  them,  dabbing  the  smear  of 
gingerbread  off  cheeks  and  chins,  buttoning  up 
little  sacques  and  jackets,  and  whisking  off  the 
most  obtrusive  patches  of  half-dried  mud. 
Among  these  parental  regulators  was  a  beam¬ 
ing  old  woman  with  a  big  market- basket  on  her 
arm,  who  brushed  and  tidied  as  impartially  as 
if  she  were  grandmother  to  the  whole  parish. 

Then,  again,  rang  out  those  gleeful  har¬ 
monies  of  which  our  Puritan  bells  know  noth¬ 
ing.  The  circle  of  mountains,  faintly  flushed 
with  an  atoning  sunset,  looked  benignly  down 
on  a  spectacle  familiar  to  them  for  hundreds 
of  Christian  summer- tides;  and  if  they  re¬ 
membered  it  still  longer  ago,  as  a  pagan  rite 
in  honour  of  nature  gods,  they  discreetly 
kept  their  knowledge  to  themselves. 

The  rushes  and  flowers  brightened  the 
church  through  the  Sunday  services,  which 
were  well  attended  by  both  dalesfolk  and 
visitors.  On  Monday  twelve  prizes  were 
awarded,  and  the  bearings  were  taken  away 
by  their  respective  owners.  Then  followed 
“the  treat,”  an  afternoon  of  frolic,  with  rain 
only  now  and  then,  on  a  meadow  behind  St. 

59 


THREE  RUSH-BEARINGS 


Mary’s.  The  ice-cream  cart,  the  climbing- 
pole,  swings  and  games,  seemed  to  hold  the 
full  attention  of  the  children,  to  each  of  whom 
was  tied  a  cup;  but  when  the  simple  supper 
was  brought  on  to  higher  ground  close  by  the 
church,  who  sat  like  a  gentle  mother  in  the 
very  midst  of  the  merry-make,  a  jubilant, 
universal  shout,  “It’s  coom!  It’s  coom!” 
sent  all  the  small  feet  scampering  toward  the 
goodies.  To  crown  it  all,  the  weather  oblig¬ 
ingly  gave  opportunity,  on  the  edge  of  the 
evening,  for  fireworks,  which  even  the  poor  lit¬ 
tle  Wesleyans  outside  the  railing  could  enjoy. 

II 

The  Ambleside  rush-bearing  takes  place 
on  the  Saturday  before  the  last  Sunday  in 
July.  The  more  famous  Grasmere  rush¬ 
bearing  comes  on  the  Saturday  next  after  St. 
Oswald’s  Day,  August  fifth.  This  year  (1906) 
these  two  festivals  fell  just  one  week  apart. 
The  London  papers  were  announcing  that 
it  was  “brilliant  weather  in  the  Lakes,” 
which,  in  a  sense,  it  was,  for  the  gleams  of 
sunshine  between  the  showers  were  like  open¬ 
ing  doors  of  Paradise;  yet  we  arrived  at  Gras- 

60 


THE  RUSH-REARING  AT  GRASMERE 


THREE  RUSH-BEARINGS 


mere  so  wet  that  we  paid  our  sixpences  to 
enter  Dove  Cottage,  a  shrine  to  which  we  had 
already  made  due  pilgrimage,  and  had  a  cosey 
half-hour  with  Mrs.  Dixon,  well  known  to 
the  tourist  world,  before  the  fireplace  whose 
quiet  glow  often  gladdened  the  poets  and 
dreamers  of  its  great  days  gone  by. 

Our  canny  old  hostess,  in  the  bonnet  and 
shawl  which  seem  to  be  her  official  wear,  was 
not  disposed  this  afternoon  to  talk  of  the 
Wordsworths,  whom  she  had  served  in  her 
girlhood.  Her  mind  was  on  the  rush-bearing 
for  which  she  had  baked  the  gingerbread 
forty-three  years.  There  were  five  hundred 
squares  this  time,  since,  in  addition  to  what 
would  be  given  to  the  children,  provision 
must  be  made  for  the  Sunday  afternoon  teas 
throughout  Grasmere.  The  rolling  out  of  the 
dough  had  not  grown  easier  with  the  passing  of 
nearly  half  a  century,  and  she  showed  us  the 
swollen  muscles  of  her  wrist.  Her  little  grand¬ 
daughters,  their  flower  erections  borne  proudly 
in  their  arms,  were  dressed  all  spick  and  span 
for  the  procession,  and  stood  with  her,  for  their 
pictures,  at  the  entrance  to  Dove  Cottage. 

It  was  still  early,  and  we  strolled  over  to 
the  tranquil  church  beside  the  Rotha.  Under 

Cl 


THREE  RUSH-BEARINGS 


the  benediction  of  that  grey,  embattled  tower, 
in  the  green  churchyard  with 

“Ridge  rising  gently  by  the  side  of  ridge, 

A  heaving  surface,” 

sleep  Wordsworth,  his  sister  Dorothy,  and 
their  kindred,  while  the  names  of  Hartley 
Coleridge  and  Arthur  Hugh  Clough  may  be 
read  on  stones  close  by.  We  brought  the 
poets  white  heather  and  heart’s  ease  for  our 
humble  share  in  the  rush-bearing. 

Grasmere  church,  with  its  strange  row  of 
rounded  arches  down  the  middle  of  the  nave 
and  its  curiously  raftered  roof,  still  wears  the 
features  portrayed  in  The  Excursion: 

“Not  raised  in  nice  proportions  was  the  pile, 

But  large  and  massy;  for  duration  built; 

With  pillars  crowded,  and  the  roof  upheld 
By  naked  rafters  intricately  crossed, 

Like  leafless  underboughs,  in  some  thick  wood, 

All  withered  by  the  depths  of  shade  above. 
Admonitory  texts  inscribed  the  walls, 

Each  in  its  ornamental  scroll  enclosed, 

Each  also  crowned  with  winged  heads  —  a  pair 
Of  rudely  painted  Cherubim.  The  floor 
Of  nave  and  aisle,  in  unpretending  guise, 

Was  occupied  bv  oaken  benches  ranged 
In  seemly  rows;  the  chancel  only  showed 
Some  vain  distinctions,  marks  of  earthly  state, 

By  immemorial  privilege  allowed.” 


THREE  RUSH-BEARINGS 


There  were  a  number  of  people  in  the 
church,  but  the  reverent  hush  was  almost 
unbroken.  Strangers  in  the  green  church¬ 
yard  were  moving  softly  about,  reading 
the  inscriptions  on  stones  and  brasses,  or 
waiting  in  the  pews,  some  in  the  attitude  of 
devotion.  In  the  south  aisle  leaned  against 
the  wall  the  banner  of  St.  Oswald,  a  crim¬ 
son-bordered  standard,  with  the  figure  of 
the  saint  in  white  and  crimson,  worked 
on  a  golden  ground.  A  short,  stout  per¬ 
sonage,  with  grey  chin- whiskers  and  a  pom¬ 
pous  air,  presumably  the  sexton,  came  in  a 
little  after  three  with  a  great  armful  of  fresh 
rushes,  and  commenced  to  strew  the  floor. 
Soon  afterwards  the  children,  with  their 
bearings,  had  taken  their  positions,  ranged  in 
a  long  row  on  the  broad  churchyard  wall, 
fronting  the  street,  which  by  this  time  was 
crowded  with  spectators,  for  the  Grasmere 
rush-bearing  is  the  most  noted  among  the 
few  survivals  of  what  was  once,  in  the  north¬ 
ern  counties  of  England,  a  very  general 
observance.  There  is  an  excellent  ac¬ 
count  of  it,  by  an  eyewitness,  as  early  as 
1789.  James  Clarke,  in  his  Survey  of  the 
Lakes,  wrote  : 


68 


THREE  RUSH-BEARINGS 


“I  happened  once  to  be  at  Grasmere,  at  what  they 
call  a  Rushbearing.  .  .  .  About  the  latter  end  of 
September  a  number  of  young  women  and  girls 
(generally  the  whole  parish)  go  together  to  the  tops 
of  the  hills  to  gather  rushes.  These  they  carry  to  the 
church,  headed  by  one  of  the  smartest  girls  in  the  com¬ 
pany.  She  who  leads  the  procession  is  styled  the 
Queen,  and  carries  in  her  hand  a  huge  garland,  and 
the  rest  usually  have  nosegays.  The  Queen  then  goes 
and  places  her  garland  upon  the  pulpit,  where  it  re¬ 
mains  till  after  the  next  Sunday.  The  rest  then  strew 
their  rushes  upon  the  bottom  of  the  pews,  and  at  the 
church  door  they  are  met  by  a  fiddler,  who  plays  be¬ 
fore  them  to  the  public  house,  where  the  evening  is 
spent  in  all  kinds  of  rustic  merriment.” 

Still  more  interesting  is  the  record,  in 
Hone’s  Year  Book,  by  “A  Pedestrian.”  On 
July  21,  1827,  the  walking  tour  of  this  witness 
brought  him  to  Grasmere. 

“The  church  door  was  open,  and  I  discovered  that 
the  villagers  were  strewing  the  floor  with  fresh  rushes. 
.  .  .  During  the  whole  of  this  day  I  observed  the  chil¬ 
dren  busily  employed  in  preparing  garlands  of  such 
wild  flowers  as  the  beautiful  valley  produces,  for  the 
evening  procession,  which  commenced  at  nine,  in  the 
following  order:  The  children,  chiefly  girls,  holding 
their  garlands,  paraded  through  the  village,  preceded 
by  the  Union  band.  They  then  entered  the  church, 
when  the  three  largest  garlands  were  placed  on  the 
altar,  and  the  remaining  ones  in  various  parts  of  the 

64 


THREE  RUSH-BEARINGS 


place.  In  the  procession  I  observed  the  ‘  Opium 
Eater,’  Mr.  Barber,  an  opulent  gentleman  residing  in 
the  neighbourhood,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wordsworth,  Miss 
Wordsworth  and  Miss  Dora  Wordsworth.  Words¬ 
worth  is  the  chief  supporter  of  these  rustic  ceremonies. 
The  procession  over,  the  party  adjourned  to  the  ball¬ 
room,  a  hayloft  at  my  worthy  friend  Mr.  Bell’s  (now 
the  Red  Lion),  where  the  country  lads  and  lasses 
tripped  it  merrily  and  heavily.  They  called  the 
amusement  dancing.  I  called  it  thumping;  for  he 
who  made  the  most  noise  seemed  to  be  esteemed  the 
best  dancer;  and  on  the  present  occasion  I  think  Mr. 
Pooley,  the  schoolmaster,  bore  away  the  palm.  Billy 
Dawson,  the  fiddler,  boasted  to  me  of  having  been 
the  officiating  minstrel  at  this  ceremony  for  the  last 
six  and  forty  years.  .  .  .  The  dance  was  kept  up  to 
a  quarter  of  twelve,  when  a  livery  servant  entered 
and  delivered  the  following  verbal  message  to  Billy : 
‘Master’s  respects,  and  will  thank  you  to  lend  him 
the  fiddle-stick.’  Billy  took  the  hint,  the  Sabbath  was 
at  hand,  and  the  pastor  of  the  parish  (Sir  Richard  le 
Fleming)  had  adopted  this  gentle  mode  of  apprising 
the  assembled  revellers  that  they  ought  to  cease  their 
revelry.  The  servant  departed  with  the  fiddle-stick, 
the  chandelier  was  removed,  and  when  the  village  clock 
struck  twelve  not  an  individual  was  to  be  seen  out  of 
doors  in  the  village.” 

Since  then  many  notices  of  the  Grasmere 
rush-bearings  have  been  printed,  the  most 
illuminating  being  that  of  the  Rev.  Canon 
6  65 


THREE  RUSH-BEARINGS 


Rawnsley,  1890,  now  included  in  one  of  his 
several  collections  of  Lake  Country  sketches. 
He  calls  attention  to  the  presence,  among  the 
bearings,  of  designs  that  suggest  a  Miracle 
Play  survival,  as  Moses  in  the  bulrushes, 
the  serpent  on  a  pole,  and  the  harps  of  David 
and  Miriam,  —  emblems  which  were  all  in 
glowing  evidence  this  past  summer.  A  merry 
and  sympathetic  account  is  given  in  a  ballad 
of  1864,  ascribed  to  Mr.  Edward  Button, 
formerly  the  Grasmere  schoolmaster: 


“In  Grasmere’s  hill-girt  valley, 

T  is  pleasant  to  recall 
The  children  of  the  dalesmen  hold 
A  pretty  festival. 


“The  children  of  the  valley 
To  this  day  faithful  keep 
The  custom  of  their  hardy  sires 
'Who  in  the  churchyard  sleep. 

“For  when  hot  summer’s  waning, 
They  to  the  lake  repair 
To  pull  the  reeds  and  lilies  white 
That  grow  in  plenty  there. 

“With  these,  and  ferns  and  mosses, 
And  flowers  of  varied  dye. 

They  hasten  home,  and  all  day  long 
Their  busy  fingers  ply. 

66 


THREE  RUSH-BEARINGS 


“Then  in  the  quiet  evening. 

Ere  dew  begins  to  fall. 

They  range  their  floral  trophies  on 
The  churchyard’s  low-topped  wall. 

“There  crosses  without  number. 

Of  every  shape  and  size. 

And  wreaths,  triangles,  crowns,  and  shields 
Appear  in  flowery  guise. 

“And  verses,  too,  and  mottoes. 

Words  ta’en  from  Holy  Writ, 

And  some  designs  which  mock  the  pen. 

We  ’ll  call  them  nondescript. 

“But  all  are  glad  and  happy 
Who  in  the  pageant  share, 

And  the  urchins  with  the  nondescripts 
Are  proud  as  any  there. 

“And  proudly  struts  each  youngster, 

When,  devices  gay  in  hand, 

They  round  about  the  village  march 
To  the  music  of  the  band. 

“Like  to  a  string  of  rainbows 
Appears  that  cortege  bright. 

Winding  ’mong  the  crooked  lanes 
In  the  golden  evening  light! 

“And  coming  to  the  church  again 
They  bear  their  garlands  in. 

They  fix  them  round  the  time-stained  fane 
While  the  bells  make  merry  din. 

67 


THREE  RUSH-BEARINGS 


But  hark!  before  departing 
From  that  house  of  prayer, 

The  incense  of  a  grateful  hymn 
Floats  on  the  quiet  air.” 

The  older  hymn  of  St.  Oswald  — 

“They  won  us  peace,  Thy  saints,  O  Lord, 

Even  though,  like  royal  David,  they 
Smiting  and  smitten  with  the  sword 
Toiled  through  their  mortal  day”  — 

is  now  followed  by  a  hymn  from  the  pen  of 
Canon  Rawnsley,  whose  genial  notice,  as  he 
passed  this  August  along  the  churchyard  wall 
of  bearings,  brought  a  happy  flush  to  one 
child-face  after  another: 

“The  Rotha  streams,  the  roses  blow. 

Though  generations  pass  away. 

And  still  our  old  traditions  flow 
From  pagan  past  and  Roman  day. 

“Beside  the  church  our  poets  sleep, 

Their  spirits  mingle  with  our  throng; 

They  smile  to  see  the  children  keep 

Our  ancient  feast  with  prayer  and  song. 


“We  too  have  foes  in  war  to  face, 

Not  yet  our  land  from  sin  is  free. 

Lord,  give  us  of  St.  Oswald’s  grace 
To  make  us  kings  and  saints  to  Thee.” 
68 


THREE  RUSH-BEARINGS 


The  Grasmere  rush- bearing,  so  far  as  we 
saw  it,  was  lacking  in  none  of  the  tradi¬ 
tional  features,  not  even  the  rain.  Yet  the 
gently  falling  showers  seemed  all  unheeded 
by  the  line  of  bright- eyed  children,  stead¬ 
fastly  propping  up  on  the  wall  their  various 
tributes.  Banners  and  crosses  and  crowns 
were  there,  and  all  the  customary  emblems. 
Among  the  several  harps  was  one  daintily 
wrought  of  marguerites;  two  little  images  of 
Moses  reposed  in  arks  woven  of  flags  and 
grasses;  on  a  moss-covered  lattice  was  traced 
in  lilies:  “Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field.” 
The  serpent  was  made  of  tough  green  stems, 
knotted  and  twisted  together  in  a  long  coil 
about  a  pole.  Geranium,  maiden-hair  fern. 
Sweet  William,  pansies,  daisies,  dahlias,  asters, 
fuchsias  mingled  their  hues  in  delicate  and 
intricate  devices.  Among  the  decorated  per¬ 
ambulators  was  one  all  wreathed  in  heather, 
with  a  screen  of  rushes  rising  high  behind. 
Its  flower-faced  baby  was  all  but  hidden  under 
a  strewing  of  roses  more  beautiful  than  any 
silken  robe,  and  a  wand  twined  with  lilies  of 
the  valley  swayed  unsteadily  from  his  pink  fist. 
Six  little  maidens  in  white  and  green,  holding 
tall  stalks  of  rushes,  upheld  the  rush-bearing 

69 


THREE  RUSH-BEARINGS 


sheet  —  linen  spun  at  Grasmere  and  woven  at 
Keswick  —  crossed  by  blossoming  sprays. 

The  rush- cart,  bearing  the  ribbon- tied 
bunches  of  rushes,  crowned  with  leafy  oak- 
boughs  and  hung  with  garlands,  belonged 
especially  to  Lancashire,  where  it  has  not 
yet  entirely  disappeared;  indeed  a  rush-cart 
has  been  seen  in  recent  years  taking  its  way 
through  one  of  the  most  squalid  quarters  of 
grimy  Manchester;  but  the  rush- sheet,  on 
which  the  precious  articles  of  the  parish, 
silver  tankards,  teapots,  cups,  spoons,  snuff¬ 
boxes,  all  lent  to  grace  this  festival,  were 
arranged,  had  really  gone  out  until,  in  this  sim¬ 
plified  form,  it  was  revived  a  few  years  ago  at 
Grasmere  by  lovers  of  the  past.  That  the 
sheet  now  holds  only  flowers  is  due  to  that 
same  inexorable  logic  of  events  which  has 
brought  it  about  that  no  longer  the  whole 
parish  with  cart-loads  of  rushes,  no  longer, 
even,  the  strong  lads  and  lasses  swinging  aloft 
bunches  of  rushes  and  glistening  holly  boughs, 
but  only  little  children  ranged  in  cherubic 
row  along  the  churchyard  wall,  and  crowing 
babies  in  their  go-carts,  bring  to  St.  Oswald 
the  tribute  of  the  summer. 

It  was  from  coach- top  we  caught  our  fare- 
70 


THREE  RUSH-BEARINGS 


well  glimpse  of  the  charming  scene.  The 
village  band,  playing  the  Grasmere  rush- 
bearing  march  —  an  original  tune  believed  to 
be  at  least  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  old  — 
led  the  way,  followed  by  the  gold  and  crimson 
banner  of  the  warrior  saint.  The  rush-sheet, 
borne  by  the  little  queen  and  her  maids  of 
honour,  came  after,  and  then  the  throng  of 
one  hundred  or  more  children,  transforming 
the  street  into  a  garden  with  the  beauty  and 
sweetness  of  their  bearings.  As  the  proces¬ 
sion  neared  the  church,  the  bells  pealed  out 
“with  all  their  voices,”  and  we  drove  off  under 
a  sudden  pelt  of  rain,  remembering  Words¬ 
worth’s  reference  to 

“This  day,  when  forth  by  rustic  music  led, 

The  village  children,  while  the  sky  is  red 
With  evening  lights,  advance  in  long  array 
Through  the  still  churchyard,  each  with  garland  gay. 
That,  carried  sceptre-like,  o’ertops  the  head 
Of  the  proud  bearer.” 

III. 

Our  third  rush-bearing  we  found  in  Che¬ 
shire,  on  Sunday,  August  12.  A  morning 
train  from  Manchester  brought  us  to  Mac¬ 
clesfield  —  keeping  the  Sabbath  with  its  silk- 
mills  closed,  and  its  steep  streets  nearly  empty 

71 


THREE  RUSH-BEARINGS 


—  in  time  for  luncheon  and  a  leisurely  drive, 
through  occasional  gusts  of  rain,  four  miles 
to  the  east,  up  and  up,  into  the  old  Maccles¬ 
field  Forest.  This  once  wild  woodland,  in¬ 
fested  by  savage  boars,  a  lurking-place  for 
outlaws,  is  now  open  pasture,  grazed  over  by 
cows  whose  milk  has  helped  to  make  the  fame 
of  Cheshire  cheese.  But  Forest  Chapel  still 
maintains  a  rite  which  flourished  when  the 
long  since  perished  trees  were  sprouts  and 
saplings. 

It  is  a  tiny  brown  church,  nested  in  a  hollow 
of  the  hills,  twelve  hundred  feet  above  the 
sea.  In  the  moss-crowned  porch,  whose 
arch  was  wreathed  with  flowers  and  grasses, 
stood  the  vicar,  as  we  came  up,  welcoming 
the  guests  of  the  rush- bearing.  For  people 
were  panting  up  the  hill  in  a  continuous 
stream,  mill  hands  from  Macclesfield  and 
farmer-folk  from  all  the  hamlets  round.  Per¬ 
haps  seven  or  eight  hundred  were  gathered 
there,  hardly  one- fourth  of  whom  could  find 
room  within  the  church. 

We  passed  up  the  walk,  thickly  strewn  with 
rushes,  under  that  brightly  garlanded  porch, 
into  a  little  sanctuary  that  was  a  very  arbour 
of  greenery  and  blossom.  As  we  were  led  up 

72 


THREE  RUSH-BEARINGS 


the  aisle,  our  feet  sank  in  a  velvety  depth  of 
rushes.  The  air  was  delicious  with  fresh, 
woodsy  scents.  A  cross  of  lilies  rose  from 
the  rush- tapestried  font.  The  window-seats 
were  filled  with  bracken,  fern,  and  goldenrod. 
The  pulpit  and  reading-desk  were  curtained 
with  long  sprays  of  bloom  held  in  green  bands 
of  woven  rushes.  The  chancel  walls  were 
hidden  by  wind-swayed  greens  from  which 
shone  out,  here  and  there,  clustering  hare¬ 
bells,  cottage  roses,  and  the  golden  glint  of  the 
sunflower.  The  hanging  lamps  were  gay 
with  asters,  larkspur,  and  gorse.  The  whole 
effect  was  indescribably  joyous  and  rural, 
frankly  suggestive  of  festivity. 

It  was  early  evensong,  a  three  o’clock  ser¬ 
vice.  There  was  to  be  another  at  five.  After 
the  ritual  came  the  full-voiced  singing  of  a 
familiar  hymn: 

“Before  the  hills  in  order  stood, 

Or  earth  received  her  frame. 

From  everlasting  Thou  art  God, 

To  endless  years  the  same. 


“Time,  like  an  ever-rolling  stream, 
Bears  all  its  sons  away; 

They  fly  forgotten,  as  a  dream 
Dies  at  the  opening  day.” 


THREE  RUSH-BEARINGS 


So  singing,  the  little  congregation  filed  out 
into  the  churchyard,  where  the  greater  con¬ 
gregation,  unable  to  gain  access,  was  singing 
too.  It  was  one  of  the  rare  hours  of  sunshine, 
all  the  more  blissful  for  their  rarity.  The 
preacher  of  the  day  took  his  stand  on  a  flat 
tombstone.  Little  girls  were  lifted  up  to 
seats  upon  the  churchyard  wall,  and  coats 
were  folded  and  laid  across  low  monuments 
for  the  comfort  of  the  old  people.  A  few 
small  boys,  on  their  first  emergence  into  the 
sunshine,  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to 
turn  an  unobtrusive  somersault  or  so  over  the 
more  distant  mounds,  but  they  were  promptly 
beckoned  back  by  their  elders  and  squatted 
submissively  on  the  turf.  The  most  of  the 
audience  stood  in  decorous  quiet.  Two 
generations  back,  gingerbread  stalls  and  all 
manner  of  booths  would  have  been  erected 
about  the  church,  and  the  rustics,  clumping 
up  the  steep  path  in  the  new  boots  which 
every  farmer  was  expected  to  give  his  men 
for  the  rush-bearing,  would  have  diversified 
the  services  by  drinking  and  wrestling. 

But  altogether  still  and  sacred  was  the  scene 
on  which  we  looked  back  as  the  compulsion 
of  the  railway  time-table  drew  us  away; 

74 


THREE  RUSH-BEARINGS 


the  low  church  tower  keeping  watch  and 
ward  over  that  green  enclosure  of  God’s 
acre,  with  the  grey  memorial  crosses  and 
the  throng  of  living  worshippers,  —  a  throng 
that  seemed  so  shadowy,  so  evanescent, 
against  the  long  memories  of  Forest  Chapel 
and  the  longer  memories  of  those  sunlit 
hills  that  rejoiced  on  every  side.  A  yellow 
rick  rose  just  behind  the  wall,  the  straws 
blowing  in  the  wind  as  if  they  wanted  to 
pull  away  and  go  to  church  with  the  rushes. 
On  the  further  side  of  the  little  temple  there 
towered  a  giant  chestnut,  a  dome  of  shining 
green  that  seemed  to  overspread  and  shelter 
its  Christian  neighbour,  as  if  in  recognition  of 
some  ancient  kinship,  some  divine  primeval 
bond,  attested,  perhaps,  by  this  very  rite  of 
rush-bearing.  The  enfolding  blue  of  the 
sky,  tender  with  soft  sunshine,  hallowed  them 
both. 


75 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL 
COUNTIES 
I.  Lancashire 


WE  all  know  Liverpool,  —  but  how 
do  we  know  it  ?  The  Landing 
Stage,  hotels  whose  surprisingly 
stable  floors,  broad  beds,  and  fresh  foods  are 
grateful  to  the  sea-worn,  the  inevitable  bank, 
perhaps  the  shops.  Most  of  us  arrive  at  Liv¬ 
erpool  only  to  hurry  out  of  it,  —  to  Chester, 
to  London,  to  the  Lakes.  Seldom  do  the 
beguilements  of  the  Head  Boots  prevail  upon 
the  impatient  American  to  visit  the  birth¬ 
places  of  its  two  queerly  assorted  lions,  “  Mr. 
Gladstone  and  Mrs.  'Emans,”  of  whom  the 
second  would  surely  roar  us  “  as  gently  as  any 
sucking  dove.”  Yet  we  might  give  a  passing 
thought  to  these  as  well  as  to  the  high-hearted 
James  Martineau  and  to  Hawthorne,  our  su¬ 
preme  artist  in  romance,  four  of  whose  pre¬ 
cious  years  the  country  wasted  in  that  “  dusky 
and  stifled  chamber  ”  of  Brunswick  Street. 

76 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


And  hours  must  be  precious  indeed  to  the  vis¬ 
itor  who  cannot  spare  even  one  for  the  Walker 
Fine  Art  Gallery,  where  hangs  Rossetti’s  great 
painting  of  “  Dante’s  Dream,”  —  the  Floren¬ 
tine,  his  young  face  yearning  with  awe  and 
grief,  led  by  compassionate  Love  to  the  couch 
of  Beatrice,  who  lies  death- pale  amid  the  flush 
of  poppies. 

But  the  individuality  of  Liverpool  is  in  its 
docks, —  over  six  miles  of  serried  basins  hol¬ 
lowed  out  of  the  bank  of  the  broad  Mersey, 
one  of  the  hardest- worked  rivers  in  the  world, 
—  wet  docks  and  dry  docks,  walled  and  gated 
and  quayed.  From  the  busiest  point  of  all, 
the  Landing  Stage,  the  mighty  ocean  liners 
draw  out  with  their  throngs  of  sated  hol¬ 
iday-makers  and  their  wistful  hordes  of 
emigrant  home-seekers.  And  all  along  the 
wharves  stand  merchantmen  of  infinite  variety, 
laden  with  iron  and  salt,  with  soap  and  sugar, 
with  earthenware  and  clay,  with  timber  and 
tobacco,  with  coal  and  grain,  with  silks  and 
woollens,  and,  above  all,  with  cotton,  —  the 
raw  cotton  sent  in  not  only  from  our  own 
southern  plantations,  but  from  India  and 
Egypt  as  well,  and  the  returning  cargoes  of 
cloth  spun  and  woven  in  “  the  cotton  towns  ” 

77 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 

of  Lancashire.  The  life  of  Liverpool  is  com¬ 
merce;  it  is  a  city  of  warehouses  and  shops. 
The  wide  sea- range  and  the  ever- plying  ferry¬ 
boats  enable  the  merchant  princes  to  reside 
well  out  of  the  town.  So  luxurious  is  the  lot 
of  these  merchants  deemed  to  be  that  Lan¬ 
cashire  has  set  in  opposition  the  terms  “a 
Liverpool  gentleman’'  and  “  a  Manchester 
man,”  while  one  of  the  ruder  cotton  towns, 
Bolton,  adds  its  contribution  of  “  a  Bolton 
chap.”  This  congestion  of  life  in  the  great 
port  means  an  extreme  of  poverty  as  well  as 
of  riches.  The  poor  quarters  of  Liverpool 
have  been  called  “  the  worst  slums  in  Chris¬ 
tendom,”  yet  a  recent  investigation  has  shown 
that  within  a  limited  area,  selected  because 
of  its  squalor  and  misery,  over  five  thousand 
pounds  a  year  goes  in  drink.  The  families 
that  herd  together  by  threes  and  fours  in  a 
single  dirty  cellar,  sleeping  on  straw  and 
shavings,  nevertheless  have  money  to  spend 
at  “the  pub,” — precisely  the  same  flaring, 
gilded  ginshop  to-day  as  when  Hawthorne 
saw  and  pitied  its  “sad  revellers”  half  a 
century  ago. 

While  Liverpool  has  a  sorry  pre-eminence 
for  high  death-rate  and  for  records  of  vice  and 

78 


THE  QUADRANT,  LIVERPOOL 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


crime,  Manchester,  “  the  cinder-heap,”  may 
fairly  claim  to  excel  in  sheer  dismalness.  The 
river  Irwell,  on  which  it  stands,  is  so  black 
that  the  Manchester  clerks,  as  the  saying 
goes,  run  down  to  it  every  morning  and  fill 
their  ink-pots.  Not  only  Manchester,  but  all 
the  region  for  ten  miles  around,  is  one  monster 
cotton  factory.  The  towns  within  this  sooty 
ring  —  tall- chimneyed  Bolton;  Bury,  that  has 
been  making  cloth  since  the  days  of  Henry 
VIII;  Middleton  on  the  sable  Irk;  Rochdale, 
whose  beautiful  river  is  forced  to  toil  not 
for  cotton  only,  but  for  flannels  and  fustians 
and  friezes;  bustling  Oldham;  Ashton- under- 
Lyme,  with  its  whirr  of  more  than  three 
million  spindles;  Staley  Bridge  on  the  Tame; 
Stockport  in  Cheshire;  Salford,  which  practi¬ 
cally  makes  one  town  with  Manchester;  and 
Manchester  itself  —  all  stand  on  a  deep  coal¬ 
field.  The  miners  may  be  seen,  of  a  Sunday 
afternoon,  lounging  at  the  street  corners,  or 
engaged  in  their  favourite  sport  of  flying  car¬ 
rier  pigeons,  as  if  the  element  of  air  had  a  pecu¬ 
liar  attraction  for  these  human  gnomes.  If 
the  doves  that  they  fly  are  white,  it  is  by  some 
special  grace,  for  smut  lies  thick  on  wall  and 
ledge,  on  the  monotonous  ranks  of  “  working- 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


men’s  homes,”  on  the  costly  public  buildings, 
on  the  elaborate  groups  of  statuary.  One’s 
heart  aches  for  the  sculptor  whose  dream  is 
hardly  made  pure  in  marble  before  it  becomes 
dingy  and  debased. 

Beyond  the  borders  of  this  magic  coal-field, 
above  which  some  dark  enchantment  binds  all 
humanity  in  an  intertwisted  coil  of  spinning, 
weaving,  bleaching,  printing,  buying,  selling 
cotton,  are  various  outlying  collieries  upon 
which  other  manufacturing  towns  are  built, 
—  Warrington,  which  at  the  time  of  our  Rev¬ 
olution  supplied  the  Royal  Navy  with  half 
its  sail-cloth;  Wigan,  whose  tradition  goes 
back  to  King  Arthur,  but  whose  renown  is 
derived  from  its  seam  of  cannel  coal;  calico 
Chorley;  Preston,  of  warlike  history  and  still 
the  centre  of  determined  strikes;  and  plenty 
more. 

The  citizens  of  the  cotton  towns  are  proud 
of  their  grimy  bit  of  the  globe,  and  with  good 
reason.  “  Rightly  understood,”  said  Disraeli, 
“  Manchester  is  as  great  a  human  exploit  as 
Athens.”  The  swift  industrial  growth,  the 
vast  business  expansion  of  all  this  region,  are 
to  be  counted  among  the  modern  miracles  of 
progress,  barren  of  beauty  and  joy  as  their 

80 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


present  stage  may  seem  to  be.  The  heroes 
held  in  memory  here  are  plain  workingmen 
whose  mechanical  inventions  resulted  in  the 
English  spinning-mill,  —  John  Kay  of  Bury, 
James  Hargreaves  of  Blackburn,  Samuel 
Crompton  of  Bolton,  and  Sir  Richard  Ark¬ 
wright,  a  native  of  Preston,  who  began  his 
career  as  a  barber’s  apprentice  and  won  his 
accolade  by  an  energy  of  genius  which  virtu¬ 
ally  created  the  cotton  manufacture  in  Lan¬ 
cashire.  The  battle  legends  are  of  angry 
mobs  and  smashed  machinery,  of  garrisoned 
mills  and  secret  experiments  and  inventors  in 
peril  of  their  lives.  The  St.  George  of  Lan¬ 
cashire  is  George  Stephenson,  the  sturdy 
Scotchman,  who  in  1830  constructed  that 
pioneer  railway  between  Liverpool  and  Man¬ 
chester,  —  a  road  which  had  to  perform  no 
mean  exploit  in  crossing  the  quaking  bog  of 
Chat  Moss.  Fanny  Kemble,  when  a  girl  of 
twenty-one,  had  the  ecstasy  of  a  trial  trip  with 
Stephenson  himself.  She  tells  with  fairy-tale 
glamour  how  “  his  tame  dragon  flew  panting 
along  his  iron  pathway  ”  at  “  its  utmost  speed, 
thirty-four  miles  an  hour,  swifter  than  a  bird 
flies.”  Wonder  of  wonders,  this  “  brave  little 
she-dragon  ”  could  “  run  with  equal  facility 
6  81 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


backwards  or  forwards.”  This  trip  took 
place  at  the  end  of  August,  preliminary  to  the 
final  opening  on  September  fifteenth,  an  occa¬ 
sion  whose  triumph  was  marred  by  a  fatal 
mischance,  in  that  a  stray  dragon  ran  over 
a  director  who  was  innocently  standing  on  the 
track.  For  a  patron  saint  of  to-day,  Man¬ 
chester  need  go  no  further  than  to  the  founder 
of  the  Ancoats  Brotherhood,  Charles  Row- 
ley,  that  cheery  philanthropist  reminding  one 
of  Hawthorne’s  friend  who  brightened  the 
dreary  visages  he  met  “as  if  he  had  carried 
a  sunbeam  in  his  hand  ” ;  for  the  disciples 
of  the  Beautiful,  the  followers  of  the  Golden 
Rule,  are  full  of  courage  even  here  among 
what  the  poet  Blake  would  designate  as  “  dark 
Satanic  mills.”  From  out  the  dirt  and  din, 
shrieking  engines,  roaring  furnaces,  clattering 
machinery,  chimneys  belching  smoke  by  day 
and  flame  by  night,  blithely  rises  the  song  of 
their  Holy  War: 

“I  will  not  cease  from  mental  fight, 

Nor  shall  my  sword  sleep  in  my  hand, 

Till  we  have  built  Jerusalem 

In  England’s  green  and  pleasant  land.” 

But  this,  though  the  modern  reality  of 
South  Lancashire,  is  not  what  the  tourist 

82 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


goes  out  to  see.  From  Liverpool  to  Furness 
Abbey  is  his  natural  and  joyful  route.  He 
steams  at  full  speed  up  this  richest,  most 
prosperous,  and  well-nigh  most  unattractive 
part  of  England ;  he  has  left  the  Mersey,  the 
county’s  southern  boundary,  far  behind;  he 
crosses  the  Ribble,  which  flows  through  the 
centre  of  Lancashire,  and  the  Lune,  which 
enters  it  from  Westmoreland  on  the  north  and 
soon  empties  into  Morecambe  Bay.  Fie  has 
come  from  a  district  close-set  with  factory 
towns,  scarred  with  mine  shafts  and  slag 
heaps,  into  the  sweet  quietude  of  an  agricul¬ 
tural  and  pastoral  region.  But  still  above 
and  beyond  him  is  Furness,  that  northern¬ 
most  section  of  Lancashire  lying  between 
Cumberland  and  Westmoreland  and  shut  off 
from  the  rest  of  the  county  by  Morecambe 
Bay  and  the  treacherous  Lancaster  sands. 
High  Furness  is  a  part  of  the  Lake  Country, 
claiming  for  Lancashire  not  only  Coniston 
Lake  but  even  one  side  of  Windermere,  which 
lies  on  the  Westmoreland  border.  Its  Cum¬ 
berland  boundary  is  the  sonneted  Duddon. 
Low  Furness,  the  peninsula  at  the  south  of 
this  isolated  strip,  has  a  wealth  of  mineral 
deposits,  especially  iron.  The  town  Barrow- 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


in-Furness,  which  in  1846  consisted  of  a  single 
hut,  with  one  fishing- boat  in  the  harbour,  has 
been  converted,  by  the  development  of  the 
mines,  into  a  place  of  much  commercial  con¬ 
sequence.  Yet  the  lover  of  poetry  will  visit 
it,  not  for  its  steel  works,  figuring  so  tragically 
in  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward’s  “  Helbeck  of  Ban- 
nisdale,”  nor  for  its  shipbuilding  yards  and 
boasted  floating  docks,  nor  for  the  paper 
works  which  take  in  a  tree  at  one  end  and 
put  it  out  as  boxes  of  dainty  stationery  at 
the  other,  but  in  order  to  reach,  by  a  boat 
from  Peele  Pier,  Wordsworth’s  Peele  Castle, 
“  standing  here  sublime,” —  that  old  island 
fortress  which  the  poet’s  dream  has  glori¬ 
fied  with 

“The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land.” 

But  it  is  to  Furness  Abbey  that  the 
throngs  of  sightseers  come,  and  well  they 
may.  Its  melancholy  grace  is  one  of  the 
treasures  of  memory.  It  was  thither  that 
Wordsworth  as  a  schoolboy  —  for  Hawks- 
liead  is  within  the  limits  of  Furness  —  would 
sometimes  ride  with  his  fellows.  The 
“Prelude”  holds  the  picture,  as  he  saw  it 
over  a  century  ago,  of 

84 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


“the  antique  walls 

Of  that  large  abbey,  where  within  the  Vale 
Of  Nightshade,  to  St.  Mary’s  honour  built, 
Stands  yet  a  mouldering  pile  with  fractured  arch. 
Belfry,  and  images,  and  living  trees; 

A  holy  scene!  Along  the  smooth  green  turf 
Our  horses  grazed.  To  more  than  inland  peace 
Left  by  the  west  wind  sweeping  overhead 
From  a  tumultuous  ocean,  trees  and  towers 
In  that  sequestered  valley  may  be  seen. 

Both  silent  and  both  motionless  alike; 

Such  the  deep  shelter  that  is  there,  and  such 
The  safeguard  for  repose  and  quietness.” 


We  lingered  there  for  days,  held  by  the 
brooding  spell  of  that  most  lovely  ruin.  Hour 
upon  hour  we  would  wander  about  among 
the  noble  fragments  which  Nature  was  so 
tenderly  comforting  for  the  outrages  of  His 
Rapacity  Henry  VIII.  Harebells  shone  blue 
from  the  top  of  the  broken  arch  of  the  tall  east 
window,  whose  glass  was  long  since  shattered 
and  whose  mullions  wrenched  away.  Grasses 
and  all  manner  of  little  green  weeds  had 
climbed  up  to  triforium  and  clerestory, 
where  they  ran  lightly  along  the  crumbling 
edges.  Ivy  tapestries  were  clinging  to  the 
ragged  stone  surfaces.  Thickets  of  night¬ 
shade  mantled  the  sunken  tombs  and  altar 
steps.  Ferns  nodded  over  the  fretted  cano- 

85 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 

pies  of  the  richly  wrought  choir  stalls  and 
muffled  the  mouths  of  fierce  old  gargoyles, 
still  grinning  defiance  at  Time.  In  the  blue 
overhead,  which  no  roof  shut  from  view,  a 
seagull  would  occasionally  flash  by  wTith  the 
same  strong  flight  that  the  eyes  of  the  Vikings, 
whose  barrows  once  dotted  the  low  islands  of 
this  western  coast,  used  to  follow  with  sym¬ 
pathetic  gaze.  Wrens  have  built  their  nests 
in  plundered  niche  and  idle  capital.  The 
rooks,  arraying  themselves  in  sombre  semi¬ 
circle  along  some  hollow  chancel  arch,  cawed 
reminiscent  vespers.  And  little  boys  and  girls 
from  Barrow,  joyous  mites  of  humanity  not 
yet  smelted  into  the  industrial  mass,  tried 
leaping- matches  from  the  stumps  of  mossy 
pillars  and  ran  races  through  nave  and  cloister. 
The  wooden  clogs  of  these  lively  youngsters 
have  left  their  marks  on  prostrate  slab  and 
effigy,  even  on  “  the  stone  abbot  ”  and  “  the 
cross-legged  knight,”  much  to  the  displeasure 
of  the  custodian,  —  a  man  who  so  truly  cares 
for  his  abbey,  the  legal  property  of  the  Duke 
of  Devonshire,  that  he  has  purchased  two  of 
the  chief  antiquarian  works  upon  Furness 
in  order  that  he  may  thoroughly  acquaint 
himself  with  its  history.  It  was  he  who 

86 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


told  us  that  many  of  the  empty  stone  cof¬ 
fins  had  been  carried  away  by  the  farmers 
of  the  neighbourhood  to  serve  as  horse- 
troughs,  and  that  in  their  barn  walls  might 
be  seen  here  and  there  sculptured  blocks 
of  red  sandstone  quite  above  the  apprecia¬ 
tion  of  calves  and  heifers.  He  told  how  he 
had  shown  “  Professor  Ruskin”  about  the 
ruins,  and  how,  at  Ruskin’s  request,  Mrs. 
Severn  had  sent  him  from  Brantwood  seeds 
of  the  Italian  toad-flax  to  be  planted  here. 
He  lent  us  his  well-thumbed  folios,  West’s 
“  Antiquities  of  Furness”  and  Beck’s  “  An- 
nales  Furnessienses,”  so  that,  sitting  under 
the  holly- shade  in  the  Abbey  Hotel  garden, 
with  a  “  starry  multitude  of  daisies  ”  at  our 
feet,  we  could  pore  at  our  ease  over  that 
strange  story,  a  tale  of  greatness  that  is  told, 
and  now,  save  for  those  lofty  ribs  and  arches 
so  red  against  the  verdure,  nothing  but  a  tale. 
Our  readings  would  be  pleasurably  inter¬ 
rupted  toward  the  close  of  the  afternoon  by  the 
advent  of  tea,  brought  to  us  in  the  garden,  and 
the  simultaneous  arrival  of  a  self-invited  robin. 

“Not  like  a  beggar  is  he  come, 

But  enters  as  a  looked-for  guest, 

Confiding  in  his  ruddy  breast.” 

87 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


We  tossed  crumbs  to  him  all  the  more  gaily 
for  the  fancy  that  his  ancestors  were  among 
the  pensioners  of  the  abbey  in  the  day  of  its 
supremacy.  For  the  monks  of  Furness  main¬ 
tained  an  honourable  reputation  for  hospital¬ 
ity  from  that  mid- thirteenth-century  begin¬ 
ning,  when  the  Grey  Brothers  from  Normandy 
first  erected  the  grave,  strong,  simple  walls  of 
their  Benedictine  foundation  in  this  deep  and 
narrow  vale,  to  the  bitter  end  in  1537.  Mean¬ 
while  they  had  early  discarded  the  grey  habit 
of  the  Benedictines  for  the  white  of  the  Cis¬ 
tercians,  and  their  abbot  had  become  “  lord 
of  the  liberties  of  Furness,”  exercising  an 
almost  regal  sway  in  his  peninsula,  with  power 
of  life  and  death,  with  armed  forces  at  com¬ 
mand,  and  with  one  of  the  richest  incomes  of 
the  kingdom  under  his  control.  With  wealth 
had  come  luxury.  The  buildings,  which 
filled  the  whole  breadth  of  the  vale,  had 
forgotten  their  Cistercian  austerity  in  a  pro¬ 
fusion  of  ornament.  Within  “  the  strait  en¬ 
closure,”  encompassing  church  and  cloisters, 
the  little  syndicate  of  white-vestured  monks 
not  only  chanted  and  prayed,  transcribed  and 
illuminated  manuscripts,  taught  the  children 
of  their  tenants  and  entertained  the  stranger, 

88 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


but  planned  financial  operations  on  a  large 
scale.  For  outside  this,  the  holy  wall,  was 
another,  shutting  in  over  threescore  acres  of 
fertile  land  which  the  lay  brothers,  far  exceed¬ 
ing  the  clerical  monks  in  number,  kept  well 
tilled.  Here  were  mill,  granary,  bakehouse, 
malt-kiln,  brewery,  fish-pond;  and  beyond 
stretched  all  Furness,  where  the  abbey  raised 
its  cattle,  sheep  and  horses,  made  salt,  smelted 
its  iron,  and  gathered  its  rents. 

Few  of  the  monastic  establishments  had 
so  much  to  lose,  but  Furness  was  surrendered 
to  the  commissioners  of  Henry  VIII  with 
seemingly  no  resistance.  The  Earl  of  Sussex 
reported  to  his  greedy  master  that  he  found 
the  Lord  Abbot  “  of  a  very  facile  and  ready 
mynde,”  while  the  prior,  who  had  been  a 
monk  in  that  house  for  fifty  years,  was  “  de- 
crepted  and  aged.”  Yet  it  may  be  noted 
that  of  the  thirty- three  monks  whom  Sussex 
found  in  possession,  only  thirty  signed  the 
deed  of  surrender.  On  the  fate  of  the  three 
history  is  silent,  save  for  a  brief  entry  to  the 
effect  that  two  were  imprisoned  in  Lancaster 
Castle.  There  is  no  record  of  their  libera¬ 
tion.  The  monks  who  made  their  submis¬ 
sion  were  granted  small  pensions.  The  abbot 

89 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


received  the  rectory  of  Dalton,  so  near  the 
desecrated  abbey  that  he  might  have  heard, 
to  his  torment,  the  crash  of  its  falling  towers. 
But  there  is  room  to  hope  that  in  those  cruel 
dungeons  of  Lancaster  two  men  died  because 
they  would  not  cringe.  We  do  not  know,  and 
it  was  in  vain  we  hunted  through  the  moon¬ 
light  for  the  ghost  of  that  mysterious  thirty- 
third,  who,  too,  might  have  a  gallant  tale 
to  tell. 

The  region  abounds  in  points  of  interest. 
Romney,  the  painter,  is  buried  in  the  church¬ 
yard  of  Dalton,  his  native  place.  Beautiful 
for  situation  is  Conishead  Priory,  “  the  Para¬ 
dise  of  Furness,”  once  a  house  of  the  Black 
Canons  and  nowT  a  much- vaunted  Hydro¬ 
pathic,  for,  in  the  stately  language  of  the 
eighteenth- century  antiquary,  Thomas  West, 
“  TCsculapius  is  seldom  invited  to  Furness, 
but  Hygeia  is  more  necessary  than  formerly.” 

Near  the  banks  of  the  Duddon  stands 
Broughton  Tower,  with  its  legend  of  how  the 
manor,  in  possession  of  the  family  from  time 
immemorial,  was  lost  by  Sir  Thomas  Brough¬ 
ton  —  and  this  wTas  the  way  of  it.  In  1487 
Lambert  Simnel,  claiming  to  be  the  son  of  the 
murdered  Clarence,  sailed  over  from  Ireland, 

90 


THE  TRENT  AND  MERSEY  CANAL 


A  GROUP  OP  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


where  he  had  been  crowned  by  the  sister  of 
Richard  III,  to  dispute  the  new  throne  of 
Henry  VII.  Among  his  supporters  were  the 
Earl  of  Lincoln,  Lord  Lovel  of  Oxfordshire, 
and  Lord  Geraldine  with  an  Irish  force;  but 
it  was  the  general  of  his  two  thousand  Bur¬ 
gundian  mercenaries,  “  bold  Martin  Swart,” 
who  is  credited  with  having  given  name  to 
Swarthmoor,  where  the  invaders  encamped. 
Sir  Thomas  joined  them  with  a  small  body 
of  retainers  and,  in  the  crushing  defeat  that 
followed,  was  probably  left  dead  upon  the 
field.  But  legend  says  that  two  of  the  Eng¬ 
lish  leaders  escaped,  —  Lord  Lovel  to  his  own 
house  in  Oxfordshire,  where  he  hid  in  a  secret 
chamber  and  perished  there  of  hunger,  and 
Sir  Thomas  to  his  faithful  tenantry,  who  for 
years  concealed  him  in  their  huts  and  sheep- 
folds,  and  when  he  died,  white-haired, 
wrapped  him  in  his  own  conquered  banner, 
and  gave  him  a  burial  worthy  of  his  race. 

But  our  associations  with  Swarthmoor  were 
of  peace  and  not  of  war.  Our  pilgrimage 
thither  was  made  for  the  sake  of  Mistress  Fell 
of  Swarthmoor  Hall  and  of  George  Fox,  her 
second  husband,  who  established  hard  by 
what  is  said  to  be  the  first  meeting-house  of 

91 


A  GROUP  OP  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 

Friends  in  England.  Quitting  the  train  at 
Lindal,  a  few  miles  above  the  abbey,  we  found 
ourselves  in  the  rich  iron  country,  “  the  Peru 
of  Furness.”  It  must  be  the  reddest  land 
this  side  of  sunset.  Even  the  turnips  and 
potatoes,  we  were  told,  come  red  out  of  the 
ground.  I  know  that  we  tramped  amazedly 
on,  over  a  red  road,  past  red  trees  and  build¬ 
ings,  with  a  red  stream  running  below,  and 
the  uncanniest  red  men,  red  from  cap  to  shoe, 
rising  like  Satan’s  own  from  out  the  earth  to 
tramp  along  beside  us.  The  road  was  deeply 
hedged,  airless  and  viewless,  and  we  were 
glad  when  we  had  left  three  miles  of  it  behind, 
though  the  village  of  Swarthmoor,  at  which 
we  had  then  arrived,  proved  to  be  one  of  those 
incredibly  squalid  English  villages  that  make 
the  heart  sick.  Between  wide  expanses  of 
sweet  green  pasture,  all  carefully  walled  in, 
with  strict  warnings  against  trespass,  ran  two 
or  three  long,  parallel  stone  streets,  swarming 
with  children  and  filthy  beyond  excuse.  The 
lambs  had  space  and  cleanliness  about  them, 
soft  turf  to  lie  upon,  pure  air  to  breathe, 
but  the  human  babies  crawled  and  tumbled 
on  that  shamefully  dirty  pavement,  along 
which  a  reeking  beer  wagon  was  noisily  jolt- 

92 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


ing  from  “public”  to  “public.”  Farther 
down  our  chosen  street,  which  soon  slipped 
into  a  lane,  there  were  tidier  homes  and  more 
sanitary  conditions.  Yet  even  Swarthmoor 
Hall,  the  line  old  Tudor  mansion  which  rose 
across  the  fields  beyond,  had  a  somewhat  un¬ 
inviting  aspect.  There  were  broken  panes 
in  the  windows,  and  the  cows  had  made  the 
dooryards  too  much  their  own.  The  present 
proprietors,  who,  we  were  assured,  value  the 
old  place  highly,  and  had  refused  repeated 
offers  for  it  from  the  Society  of  Friends, 
rent  it  to  a  farmer.  The  housekeeper,  not 
without  a  little  grumbling,  admitted  us,  and 
showed  us  about  the  spacious  rooms  with 
their  dark  oak  panelling,  their  richly  carven 
mantels,  their  windows  that  look  seaward 
over  Morecambe  Bay  and  inland  to  the  Conis- 
ton  mountains.  The  hall  which  Judge  Fell, 
a  wise  and  liberal  man,  tolerant  beyond  his 
time,  allowed  the  Friends  to  use  for  their 
weekly  meetings,  is  a  room  of  goodly  pro¬ 
portions,  with  flagged  floor  and  timbered 
roof.  In  the  dining-room  window  stands  a 
simple  deal  desk  once  belonging  to  George 
Fox,  but  that  upper  door  through  which  he 
used  to  preach  to  the  throng  in  orchard  and 

93 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


meadow  is  now  walled  up.  As  we,  departing, 
looked  back  at  the  house,  large,  plain,  three¬ 
storied,  covered  with  grey  stucco,  we  noted 
how  right  up  on  the  chimney,  in  the  alien 
fellowship  of  the  chimney-pots,  flourished 
a  goodly  green  yew,  sown  by  passing  wind 
or  bird.  The  housekeeper,  who  had  waxed 
so  gracious  that  she  accompanied  us  for  a  few 
steps  on  our  way,  said  she  had  lived  in  Swarth- 
moor  thirty-four  years  and  had  always  seen 
the  yew  looking  much  as  it  did  now,  but  that 
an  old  man  of  the  neighbourhood  remem¬ 
bered  it  in  his  boyhood  as  only  finger- long. 
It  had  never,  so  far  as  she  could  tell,  been  pro¬ 
vided  bv  mortal  hand  with  earth  or  water, 

V 

but  grew  by  some  inner  grace,  a  housetop 
sign  and  signal. 

Many  hallowed  memories  cluster  about 
that  old  Elizabethan  mansion.  It  was  in 
1632  that  Judge  Fell  brought  thither  his 
bride,  Margaret  Askew,  sixteen  years  his 
junior.  She  was  a  descendant  of  Anne 
Askew,  who,  a  beautiful  woman  of  twenty- 
four,  thoughtful  and  truthful,  had  been 
burned  as  a  heretic,  —  one  of  the  closing 
achievements  of  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.  “  I 
saw  her,”  reports  a  bystander,  “  and  must 

94 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


needs  confess  of  Mistress  Askew,  now  departed 
to  the  Lord,  that  the  day  before  her  execution, 
and  the  same  day  also,  she  had  on  an  angel’s 
countenance,  and  a  smiling  face;  though 
when  the  hour  of  darkness  came,  she  was  so 
racked  that  she  could  not  stand,  but  was 
holden  up  between  two  serjeants.” 

It  was  then  that  the  Lord  Chancellor  — 
who  previously,  when  even  the  callous  jailer 
had  refused  to  rack  the  delicate  body  further, 
had  thrown  off  his  gown  and  worked  the 
torture- engine  with  his  own  hands  —  offered 
her  the  king's  pardon  if  she  would  recant, 
receiving  in  reply  only  the  quiet  words,  “  I 
came  not  hither  to  deny  my  Lord  and 
Master.” 

It  is  not  easy  for  us  who  read  to  echo  the 
prayer  of  her  who  suffered: 

“Lord,  I  Thee  desyre. 

For  that  they  do  to  me, 

Let  them  not  taste  the  hyre 
Of  their  inyquyte.” 

No  wonder  that  Margaret  Fell,  with  such 
a  history  in  her  heart,  should  have  lent  a 
ready  ear  to  the  doctrines  of  the  “  Children 
of  Light,”  as  the  people  dubbed  them,  the 
“  Friends  of  Truth,”  as  they  called  them- 

95 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


selves,  the  “  Quakers,”  whose  prime  conten¬ 
tion  was  for  liberty  of  conscience. 

She  had  been  married  twenty  years  when 
George  Fox  first  appeared  at  Swarthmoor 
Hall,  where  all  manner  of  “  lecturing  minis¬ 
ters  ”  were  hospitably  entertained.  Three 
weeks  later,  Judge  Fell,  a  grave  man  not 
far  from  sixty,  was  met,  as  he  was  riding 
home  from  circuit,  by  successive  parties  of 
gentlemen,  “  a  deal  of  the  captains  and 
great  ones  of  the  country,”  who  had  come 
out  to  tell  him  that  his  family  were  “  all 
bewitched.”  Home  he  came  in  wrath,  but 
his  wife  soothed  him  as  good  wives  know 
how,  —  had  the  nicest  of  dinners  made  ready, 
and  sat  by  him,  chatting  of  this  and  that, 
while  he  ate. 

“  At  night,”  says  her  own  account,  “  George 
Fox  arrived;  and  after  supper,  when  my  hus¬ 
band  was  sitting  in  the  parlour,  I  asked  if  he 
might  come  in.  My  husband  said  yes.  So 
George  walked  into  the  room  without  any 
compliment.  The  family  all  came  in,  and 
presently  he  began  to  speak.  He  spoke  very 
excellently,  as  ever  I  heard  him ;  and  opened 
Christ’s  and  the  Apostles’  practices.  ...  If 
all  England  had  been  there,  I  thought  they 

96 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


could  not  have  denied  the  truth  of  these  things. 
And  so  my  husband  came  to  see  clearly  the 
truth  of  what  he  spake.” 

The  next  First-day  the  meeting  of  the 
Friends  was  held  at  Swarthmoor  Hall  on 
Judge  Fell’s  own  invitation,  though  he  him¬ 
self  went,  as  usual,  to  “the  Steeplehouse.” 
The  spirit  of  persecution  was  soon  abroad, 
and  one  day,  when  the  Judge  was  absent  on 
circuit.  Fox,  while  speaking  in  the  church, 
was  set  upon,  knocked  down,  trampled, 
beaten,  and  finally  whipped  out  of  town.  On 
Judge  Fell’s  return,  he  dealt  with  the  Friend’s 
assailants  as  common  rioters.  The  Judge 
held,  however,  his  mother’s  faith  to  the  end, 
never  becoming  a  member  of  the  Society. 
He  died  in  the  year  of  Cromwell’s  death, 
1658,  and  was  buried  by  torchlight  under  the 
family  pew  in  Ulverston  church.  “He  was 
a  merciful  man  to  God’s  people,”  wrote  his 
widow,  adding  that,  though  not  a  Friend,  he 
“sought  after  God  in  the  best  way  that  was 
made  known  to  him.” 

Meanwhile  Margaret  Fell  had  become  a 
leader  among  the  Children  of  Light.  Twice 
she  wrote  to  Cromwell  in  behalf  of  their  cause, 
and  again  and  again  to  Charles  II,  with  whom 
7  1)7 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


she  pleaded  face  to  face.  Now  that  her  hus¬ 
band’s  protection  was  withdrawn,  persecu¬ 
tion  no  longer  spared  her,  and  she,  like  Fox 
and  many  another  of  the  Society,  came  to 
know  well  the  damp  and  chilly  dungeons 
of  Lancaster  Castle,  —  that  stern  prison  of 
North  Lancashire  which  may  be  viewed  afar 
off  from  the  ominous  height  of  Weeping  Hill. 

“Thousands,  as  toward  yon  old  Lancastrian  Towers, 

A  prison’s  crown,  along  this  way  they  passed. 

For  lingering  durance  or  quick  death  with  shame. 

From  this  bare  eminence  thereon  have  cast 
Their  first  look  —  blinded  as  tears  fell  in  showers 
Shed  on  their  chains.” 

Refusing,  as  a  Quaker  must  needs  refuse, 
to  take  the  oath  of  supremacy,  Mistress  Fell 
stood  her  trial  in  1663,  her  four  daughters 
beside  her.  Her  arguments  irritated  the 
judge  into  exclaiming  that  she  had  “an  ever¬ 
lasting  tongue,”  and  he  condemned  her  to 
imprisonment  for  life,  with  confiscation  of  all 
her  property  to  the  Crown.  But  after  some 
five  years  of  Lancaster’s  grim  hospitality 
she  was  released,  and  forthwith  set  out  on  a 
series  of  visits  to  those  English  jails  in  which 
Quakers  wTere  immured.  It  was  not  until 
eleven  years  after  Judge  Fell’s  death  that  she 

98 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


married  George  Fox.  The  courtship  is  sum¬ 
marised  in  Fox’s  “Journal”:  “I  had  seen 
from  the  Lord  a  considerable  time  before  that 
I  should  take  Margaret  Fell  to  be  my  wife; 
and  when  I  first  mentioned  it  to  her  she  felt 
the  answer  from  God  thereto.”  Yet  after 
the  marriage,  as  before,  they  pursued,  in  the 
main,  their  separate  paths  of  preaching, 
journeying,  and  imprisonment.  It  was  seven 
years  before  illness  brought  Fox  to  Swarth- 
moor,  which  had  been  restored  to  the  family, 
for  a  brief  rest.  About  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  the  mansion,  stood  a  dwelling-house  in 
its  three  or  four  acres  of  land.  This  modest 
estate  Fox  purchased  and  gave  it  “to  the 
Lord,  for  the  service  of  his  sons  and  daughters 
and  servants  called  Quakers.  .  .  .  And  also 
my  ebony  bedstead,  with  painted  curtains, 
and  the  great  elbow-chair  that  Robert  Widder 
sent  me,  and  my  great  sea  case  with  the  bottles 
in  it  I  do  give  to  stand  in  the  house  as  heir¬ 
looms,  when  the  house  shall  be  made  use  of 
as  a  meeting- place,  that  Friends  may  have 
a  bed  to  lie  on,  a  chair  to  sit  on,  and  a  bottle 
to  hold  a  little  water  for  drink.”  He  adds: 
“Slate  it  and  pave  the  way  to  it  and  about  it, 
that  Friends  may  go  dry  to  their  meeting. 

99 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


You  may  let  any  poor,  honest  Friend  live  in 
the  house,  and  so  let  it  be  for  the  Lord’s  ser¬ 
vice,  to  the  end  of  the  world.” 

A  deep  hawthorn  lane,  winding  to  the 
left,  led  us  to  that  apostolic  meeting-house, 
well-nigh  hidden  from  the  road  by  its  high, 
grey,  ivy- topped  wall.  We  passed  through 
a  grassy  outer  court  into  an  inner  enclosure 
thick-set  with  larches,  hollies,  and  wild  cherry. 
The  paths  are  paved.  Luxuriant  ivy  curtains 
porch  and  wall,  and  clambers  up  over  the  low 
tower.  Above  the  door  is  inscribed : 

Ex  dono  G.  F 1682. 

The  meeting-room  within  is  of  Quaker  plain¬ 
ness,  with  drab-tinted  walls.  The  settees 
are  hard  and  narrow,  though  a  few  “at  the 
top”  are  allowed  the  creature  comfort  of 
cushions.  Only  the  posts  are  left  of  the  ebony 
bedstead,  but  two  elbow-chairs  of  carven  oak, 
a  curiously  capacious  and  substantial  travel- 
ling-chest,  and  a  Bible  still  are  shown  as  Fox’s 
personal  belongings.  The  Bible  is  a  black- 
letter  folio  of  1541,  the  Treacle  Bible,  open 
at  the  third  chapter  of  Jeremiah,  where,  in 
the  last  verse,  comes  the  query:  “Is  not  there 
any  tryacle  in  Gylyad?” 

100 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


But  Lancashire  has  other  saints  no  less 
holy  than  those  dear  to  Protestant  and 
Quaker  memory.  Surely  martyrs,  irrespec¬ 
tive  of  the  special  phase  of  the  divine  idea 
for  which  they  gladly  gave  up  their  bodies 
to  torture  and  to  death,  are  the  truest  heroes 
of  history. 

“For  a  tear  is  an  intellectual  thing. 

And  a  sigh  is  the  sword  of  an  Angel  King, 

And  the  bitter  groan  of  the  Martyr’s  woe 
Is  an  arrow  from  the  Almighty’s  bow.” 

This  remote  county,  especially  the  north 
with  its  perilous  bogs  and  rugged  fells,  clung 
to  the  mother  faith.  Many  of  its  old  families 
are  still  Catholic;  many  a  Tudor  mansion 
can  show  its  “  priest- hole  ”  from  which,  per¬ 
haps,  some  hidden  Jesuit  has  been  dragged 
to  the  dungeon  and  the  scaffold.  We  jour¬ 
neyed  up  from  Manchester  on  a  sunny  after¬ 
noon,  for  love  of  one  of  these,  to  the  beautiful 
valley  of  the  Ribble,  rich  in  manifold  tradi¬ 
tions.  Our  time  was  short,  but  we  climbed 
to  the  keep  of  Clitheroe  Castle,  ruined  for  its 
loyalty  to  Charles  I,  and  viewed  that  wide 
prospect  whose  most  impressive  feature  is  the 
witch-storied  stretch  of  Pendle  Hill.  On 
that  long  level  range  the  famous  witches  of 

101 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


Lancashire  used  to  hold  their  unseemly  orgies, 
hooting  and  yowling  about  Malkin  Tower, 
their  capital  stronghold,  whose  evil  stones 
were  long  since  cast  down  and  scattered. 
Peevish  neighbours  they  were,  at  the  best, 
ready  on  the  least  provocation  to  curse  the  cow 
from  giving  milk  and  the  butter  from  coming 
in  the  churn,  but  on  Pendle  Hill  the  broom¬ 
stick  battalion  was  believed  to  dance  in  un¬ 
couth  circle  about  caldrons  seething  with 
hideous  ingredients  and  to  mould  little  wax 
images  of  their  enemies  who  would  peak  and 
pine  as  these  effigies  wasted  before  the  flames, 
or  shudder  with  fierce  shoots  of  agony  as  red- 
hot  needles  were  run  into  the  wax.  What 
were  honest  folk  to  do  ?  It  was  bad  enough 
to  have  the  bride-cake  snatched  away  from 
the  wedding-feast  and  to  find  your  staid 
Dobbin  all  in  a  lather  and  dead  lame  at  sun¬ 
rise  from  his  wild  gallop,  under  one  of  these 
“secret,  black  and  midnight  hags,”  to  Malkin 
Tower,  but  when  you  were  saddled  and  bridled 
and  ridden  yourself,  when  the  hare  that  you 
had  chased  and  wounded  turned  suddenly 
into  your  own  wife  panting  and  covered  with 
blood,  when  your  baby  was  stolen  from  the 
cradle  to  be  served  up  in  the  Devil’s  Sacra- 

102 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


ment  of  the  Witches’  Sabbath,  it  was  time  to 
send  for  one  of  King  James’s  “  witch- finders.” 
So  the  poor  old  crones,  doubled  up  and  corded 
thumb  to  toe,  were  flung  into  the  Calder  to 
see  whether  they  would  sink  or  swim,  or  sent 
to  where  the  fagot- piles  awaited  them  in  the 
courtyard  of  Lancaster  Gaol,  or  even  —  so 
the  whisper  goes  —  flung  into  their  own  lurid 
bonfires  on  Pendle  Hill.  But  still  strange 
shadows,  as  of  furious  old  arms  that  scatter 
curses,  are  to  be  seen  on  those  heather- purpled 
slopes,  and  from  the  summit  black  thunder¬ 
storms  crash  down  with  supernatural  sudden¬ 
ness  and  passion. 

Our  driver  was  a  subdued  old  man,  with 
an  air  of  chronic  discouragement.  He  met 
the  simplest  questions,  about  trains,  about 
trees,  about  climate,  with  a  helpless  shake  of 
the  head  and  the  humble  iteration:  “I  can’t 
say.  I’m  no  scholard.  I  never  went  to 
school.  I  can’t  read.”  He  eyed  Pendle  Hill, 
standing  blue  in  a  flood  of  sunshine,  with  ob¬ 
vious  uneasiness,  and  asked  if  we  thought 
there  really  were  “such  folk  as  witches.”  As 
we  drove  up  the  long  avenues  of  Stonyhurst, 
our  goal,  that  imposing  seat  of  learning  seemed 
to  deepen  his  meek  despondency.  He  mur- 

103 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


mured  on  his  lofty  perch:  “I  never  went  to 
school.” 

Stonyhurst,  the  chief  Catholic  college  of 
England,  was  originally  located  at  St.  Omer’s 
in  France.  Over  sea  to  St.  Omer’s  the 
Catholic  gentry  of  Elizabethan  times  used 
to  send  their  sons.  There  the  exiled  lads 
vainly  chanted  litanies  for  England’s  con¬ 
version,  their  church  door  bearing  in  golden 
letters  the  fervent  prayer:  “Jesu,  Jesn,  con- 
verte  Angliam,  fiat ,  fiat.”  The  Elizabethan 
sonneteer,  William  Habington,  who  describes 
“a  holy  man”  as  one  who  erects  religion  on 
the  Catholic  foundation,  “knowing  it  a  ruin¬ 
ous  madness  to  build  in  the  air  of  a  private 
spirit,  or  on  the  sands  of  any  new  schism,” 
was  a  St.  Omer’s  boy.  Nineteen  of  those 
quaintly  uniformed  lads,  blue-coated,  red- 
vested,  leather- trousered,  afterwards  died  on 
the  scaffold  or  in  prison,  usually  as  Jesuit 
priests  who  had  slipped  into  England  against 
Elizabethan  law. 

During  the  latter  half  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  when  the  strong  feeling  against  the 
Jesuits  led  to  their  banishment  from  France 
and  finally  to  the  temporary  suppression  of 
the  order,  the  school  began  its  wanderings,  — 

104 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


from  St.  Omer’s  to  Bruges,  thence  to  Liege, 
and  at  last,  in  1794,  from  Liege  to  England, 
where  one  of  the  alumni  presented  the  home¬ 
less  seminary  with  the  fine  estate  of  Stony- 
hurst.  In  this  secluded,  healthful  situation 
there  now  stands  a  prosperous  college,  with 
dormitories  for  two  hundred  students,  with 
well-equipped  academic  buildings,  a  prepar¬ 
atory  school,  and  a  great  farm  which  of  it¬ 
self  maintains  the  institution. 

Stonyhurst  has  many  treasures,  —  illumi¬ 
nated  missals,  Caxton  editions,  a  St.  John’s 
Gospel  in  Gaelic  script  said  to  have  been 
found  in  the  tomb  of  St.  Cuthbert,  relics 
of  “Blessed  Thomas  More,”  original  por¬ 
traits  of  the  Stuarts,  —  including  the  winsome 
picture  of  Bonny  Prince  Charlie  as  a  child,  — 
but  the  object  of  our  quest  was  a  little  manu¬ 
script  volume  of  Robert  Southwell’s  poems. 
Of  course  the  porter  knew  nothing  about  it, 
though  he  strove  to  impart  the  impression 
that  this  was  the  only  matter  in  the  universe 
on  which  he  was  uninformed,  and  “the  teach¬ 
ing  fathers  ”  were  still  absent  for  their  summer 
holiday;  but  a  gentle  old  lay  brother  finally 
hunted  out  for  us  the  precious  book,  choicely 
bound  in  vellum  and  delicately  written  in  an 

105 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


unknown  hand,  with  corrections  and  inser¬ 
tions  in  the  young  priest’s  own  autograph. 
This  Stonyhurst  manuscript  gives  the  best 
and  only  complete  text  for  the  strange,  touch¬ 
ing,  deeply  devotional  poems  of  Father  South- 
well,  —  the  text  on  which  Grosart’s  edition 
rests.  It  is  supposed  that  they  were  written 
out  for  him  by  a  friend  while  he  lay  a  prisoner 
in  the  Tower,  and  that  in  the  intervals  be¬ 
tween  the  brutalities  of  torture  to  which  that 
most  sensitive  organism  was  again  and  again 
subjected,  he  put  to  his  book  these  finishing 
touches,  —  only  a  few  months  and  weeks 
before  he  was  executed  at  Tyburn  by  a  blun¬ 
derer  who  adjusted  the  noose  so  badly  that 
the  martyr  “several  times  made  the  sign  of 
the  Cross  while  he  was  hanging.” 

Our  eyes  filled  as  we  deciphered  the  faded 
Elizabethan  script: 

“God’s  spice  I  was,  and  pounding  was  my  due; 

In  fading  breath  my  incense  savored  best; 

Death  was  the  meane,  my  kyrnell  to  renewe; 

By  loppynge  shott  I  upp  to  heavenly  rest. 


“Rue  not  my  death,  rejoice  at  my  repose; 

It  was  no  death  to  me,  but  to  my  woe; 

The  budd  was  opened  to  lett  out  the  rose, 

The  cheynes  unloos’d  to  let  the  captive  goe.” 
106 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


As  we  were  driving  on  to  Whalley,  to  pay 
our  tribute  of  honour  to  yet  one  shining 
memory  more,  the  summit  of  Pendle  Hill 
suddenly  wrapped  itself  in  sable  cloud,  and 
its  haunting  vixens  let  loose  upon  us  the  most 
vehement  pelt  of  rain,  diversified  with  light¬ 
ning-jags  and  thunder- crashes,  that  it  was 
ever  my  fortune  to  be  drenched  withal.  One 
of  the  Lancashire  witches  is  buried  in  Whalley 
churchyard  under  a  massive  slab  which  is 
said  to  heave  occasionally.  I  think  I  saw 
it  shaking  with  malicious  glee  as  we  came 
spattering  up  the  flooded  path,  looking  as  if 
we  had  ourselves  been  “  swum  ”  in  the  Calder. 

Whalley  church,  one  of  the  most  curious 
and  venerable  parish  churches  of  England, 
shelters  the  ashes  of  John  Paslew,  last  Abbot 
of  Whalley.  Upon  the  simple  stone  are  cut 
a  floriated  cross  and  chalice,  with  the  words 
“  Jesu  fili  dei  miserere  mei.”  Only  the  few¬ 
est  traces,  chief  of  which  is  a  beautiful  gate¬ 
way  with  groined  roof,  remain  of  this  great 
abbey,  one  of  the  richest  in  the  north  of  Eng¬ 
land,  charitable,  hospitable,  with  an  especially 
warm  welcome  for  wandering  minstrels.  Its 
walls  have  been  literally  levelled  to  the  ground, 
like  those  of  the  rival  Cistercian  foundation  at 

107 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


Sawley,  a  few  miles  above.  But  the  “White 
Church  under  the  Leigh,”  believed  to  have 
been  originally  established  by  the  missionary 
Paulinus  in  the  seventh  century,  preserves 
the  abbey  choir  stalls,  whose  crocheted  pin¬ 
nacles  tower  to  the  top  of  the  chancel.  Their 
misereres  are  full  of  humour  and  spirit.  An 
old  woman  beating  her  husband  with  a  ladle 
is  one  of  the  domestic  scenes  that  tickled  the 
merry  monks  of  Whalley.  We  could  have 
lingered  long  in  this  ancient  church  for  its 
wealth  of  fine  oak  carving,  its  pew  fashioned 
like  a  cage,  its  heraldic  glass,  and,  in  the 
churchyard,  the  three  old,  old  crosses  with 
their  interlacing  Runic  scrolls,  one  of  which, 
when  a  witch  read  it  backward,  would  do  her 
the  often  very  convenient  sendee  of  making 
her  invisible.  But  we  had  time  only  for  the 
thought  of  Abbot  Paslew,  who,  refusing  to 
bow  to  the  storm  like  the  Abbot  of  Furness, 
had  raised  a  large  body  of  men  and  gone  to 
arms  for  the  defence  of  the  English  monas¬ 
teries  against  the  royal  robber.  He  was  a 
leader  in  the  revolt  of  1537,  known  as  the  Pil¬ 
grimage  of  Grace.  The  Abbot  of  Sawley, 
William  Trafford,  old  jealousies  forgotten, 
took  the  field  with  him.  But  monks  were 

108 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


no  match  for  Henry  VIII’s  generals,  the  re¬ 
bellion  was  promptly  crushed,  the  Abbot  of 
Sawley  was  hanged  at  Lancaster,  and  Abbot 
Paslew  was  taken,  with  a  refinement  of  ven¬ 
geance,  back  to  Whalley  and  gibbeted  there, 
in  view  of  the  beautiful  abbey  over  which  he 
had  borne  sway  for  thirty  years.  The  coun¬ 
try  folk  had  depended  upon  it  for  alms,  for 
medical  aid,  for  practical  counsel,  for  spiritual 
direction,  and  we  may  well  believe  that,  as 
they  looked  on  at  the  execution,  their  hearts 
were  hot  against  the  murderers  of  him 
who,  when  he  grasped  the  sword,  had  as¬ 
sumed  the  title  of  Earl  of  Poverty.  The 
mound  where  he  suffered  is  well  remembered 
to  this  day. 

The  flying  hours  had  been  crowded  with 
impressions,  tragic,  uncanny,  pitiful,  and  we 
had  yet,  in  going  to  the  station,  to  run  the 
gauntlet  of  a  tipsy  town,  for  it  was  a  holiday. 
We  had  found  Clitheroe  drinking,  earlier  in 
the  afternoon,  and  now  we  found  Whalley 
drunk.  One  unsteady  individual,  wagging 
his  head  from  side  to  side  and  stretching  out 
a  pair  of  wavering  arms,  tried  to  bar  my 
progress. 

“Wh-where  be  g-goin’?”  he  asked. 

109 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


“To  tlie  train,”  I  answered  curtly,  dodg¬ 
ing  by. 

He  sat  down  on  the  wTall  and  wept  aloud. 

“T-to  the  tr-train!  Oh,  the  L-Lord 
bl-bless  you!  The  g-good  L-Lord  bl-bless 
you  all  the  w-way!” 

And  the  last  we  saw  and  heard  of  him,  he 
was  still  feebly  shaking  his  hands  after  us 
and  sobbing  maudlin  benedictions. 

II.  Cheshire 

Drayton  the  poet  once  took  it  upon  him 
to  assure  Cheshire  that  what  was  true  of 
Lancashire  was  true  also  of  her: 

“Thy  natural  sister  shee  —  and  linkt  unto  thee  so 

That  Lancashire  along  with  Cheshire  still  doth  goe.” 

From  that  great  backbone  of  England,  the 
Pennine  Range,  both  these  counties  fall  away 
to  the  west,  but  Cheshire  quickly  opens  into 
the  Shropshire  plain.  At  the  northeast  it  has 
its  share  in  the  treasures  of  the  deep  coal¬ 
field  rent  across  by  the  Pennines,  and  here, 
too,  are  valuable  beds  of  copper.  In  this 
section  of  the  county  cluster  the  silk  towns, 
among  them  Macclesfield,  the  chief  seat  in 

110 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


England  of  this  manufacture,  and  Congleton, 
whose  character  we  will  trust  has  grown 
more  spiritual  with  time.  For  in  1617  one 
of  the  village  wags  tugged  a  bear  into  the 
pulpit  at  the  hour  of  service,  and  it  was  a  full 
twelvemonth  before  the  church  was  recon¬ 
secrated  and  worship  resumed.  Indeed,  the 
Congleton  folk  had  such  a  liking  for  bear- 
baiting  or  bear- dancing,  or  whatever  sport  it 
was  their  town  bear  afforded  them,  that  when 
a  few  years  later  this  poor  beast  died,  it  is 
told  that 

“living  far  from  Godly  fear 
They  sold  the  Church  Bible  to  buy  a  bear.” 

The  old  Cheshire,  everywhere  in  evidence 
with  its  timber-and-plaster  houses,  distracts 
the  mind  from  this  new  industrial  Cheshire. 
We  visited  Macclesfield,  but  I  forgot  its  fac¬ 
tories,  its  ribbons  and  sarcenets,  silks  and 
satins  and  velvets,  because  of  the  valiant 
Leghs.  Two  of  them  sleep  in  the  old  Church 
of  St.  Michael,  under  a  brass  that  states  in 
a  stanza  ending  as  abruptly  as  human  life 
itself : 

“Here  lyeth  the  body  of  Perkin  a  Legli 
That  for  King  Richard  the  death  did  die, 
Betray’d  for  righteousness; 

111 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


And  the  bones  of  Sir  Peers  his  sone, 

That  with  King  Henrie  the  fift  did  wonne 
In  Paris.” 

I  have  read  that  Sir  Perkin  was  knighted 
at  Crecy  and  Sir  Peers  at  Agincourt,  and  that 
they  were  kinsmen  of  Sir  Uryan  Legh  of  Ad- 
lington,  the  Spanish  Lady’s  Love. 

‘‘Will  ye  hear  a  Spanish  Lady, 

How  she  wooed  an  Englishman  ? 

Garments  gay  and  rich  as  may  be. 

Decked  with  jewels,  she  had  on.” 

This  Sir  Uryan  was  knighted  by  Essex  at 
the  siege  of  Calais,  and  it  was  then,  appar¬ 
ently,  that  the  poor  Spanish  lady,  beautiful 
and  of  high  degree,  lost  her  heart.  The 
Elizabethan  ballad,  whose  wood-cut  shows 
a  voluminously  skirted  dame  entreating  an 
offish  personage  in  a  severely  starched  ruff, 
tells  us  that  she  had  fallen,  by  some  chance 
of  war,  into  his  custody. 

‘‘As  his  prisoner  there  he  kept  her; 

In  his  hands  her  life  did  lie; 

Cupid’s  bauds  did  tie  them  faster 
By  the  liking  of  an  eye. 


‘‘But  at  last  there  came  commandment 
For  to  set  all  ladies  free, 

With  their  jewels  still  adorned, 

None  to  do  them  injury.” 

112 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


But  freedom  was  no  boon  to  her. 

“Gallant  Captain,  take  some  pity 
On  a  woman  in  distress; 

Leave  me  not  within  this  city 
For  to  die  in  heaviness.” 

In  vain  he  urges  that  he  is  the  enemy  of  her 
country. 

“Blessed  be  the  time  and  season 

That  you  came  on  Spanish  ground; 

If  you  may  our  foes  be  termed, 

Gentle  foes  we  have  you  found.” 


He  suggests  that  she  would  have  no  diffi¬ 
culty  in  getting  a  Spanish  husband,  but  she 
replies  that  Spaniards  are  “fraught  with 
jealousy.” 

“Still  to  serve  thee  day  and  night 
My  mind  is  prest; 

The  wife  of  every  Englishman 
Is  counted  blest.” 

He  objects  that  it  is  not  the  custom  of  Eng¬ 
lish  soldiers  to  be  attended  by  women. 

“I  will  quickly  change  myself, 

If  it  be  so, 

And  like  a  page  will  follow  thee 
Where  e’er  thou  go.” 

But  still  he  makes  excuse : 

8  113 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


“I  have  neither  gold  nor  silver 
To  maintain  thee  in  this  case. 

And  to  travel  is  great  charges, 

As  you  know,  in  every  place.” 

She  puts  her  fortune  at  his  disposal,  but  he 
has  hit  upon  a  new  deterrent : 

“On  the  seas  are  many  dangers, 

Many  storms  do  there  arise, 

Which  will  be  to  ladies  dreadful 
And  force  tears  from  watry  eyes.” 

She  implies  that  she  would  gladly  die,  even 
of  seasickness,  for  his  sake,  and  at  that  the 
truth  breaks  forth : 

“Courteous  lady,  leave  this  folly; 

Here  comes  all  that  breeds  this  strife:  — 

I  in  England  have  already 
A  sweet  woman  to  my  wife. 

“I  will  not  falsify  my  vow 
For  gold  nor  gain, 

Nor  yet  for  all  the  fairest  dame3 
That  live  in  Spain.” 

Her  reply,  with  its  high  Spanish  breeding, 
puts  his  blunt  English  manners  to  shame: 

“Oh  how  happy  is  that  woman 
That  enjoys  so  true  a  friend. 

Many  happy  days  God  lend  her! 

Of  my  suit  I’ll  make  an  end. 


114 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


“Commend  me  to  that  gallant  lady; 
Bear  to  her  this  chain  of  gold; 
With  these  bracelets  for  a  token; 
Grieving  that  I  was  so  bold. 


“I  will  spend  my  days  in  prayer, 
Love  and  all  her  laws  defy; 

In  a  nunnery  I  will  shroud  me. 

Far  from  any  company. 

“But  e’er  my  prayer  have  an  end. 
Be  sure  of  this,  — 

To  pray  for  thee  and  for  thy  Love 
I  will  not  miss. 


“Joy  and  true  prosperity 
Remain  with  thee!” 

“The  like  fall  unto  thy  share. 

Most  fair  lady!” 

This  ballad,  which  Shakespeare  might 
have  bought  for  a  penny  “at  the  Looking- 
glass  on  London  bridge”  and  sung  to  the 
tune  of  “Flying  Fame,”  is  still  a  favourite 
throughout  Cheshire. 

But  we  are  driving  from  Macclesfield  up 
into  the  Cheshire  highlands,  —  velvety  hills, 
green  to  the  top,  all  smoothed  off  as  trim  as 
sofa- cushions  and  adorned  with  ruffles  of  foli¬ 
age.  Nature  is  a  neat  housekeeper  even  here 
in  the  wildest  corner  of  Cheshire.  What  was 

115 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


once  savage  forest  is  now  tranquil  grazing- 
ground,  and  the  walls  that  cross  the  slopes 
and  summits,  dividing  the  sward  into  separate 
cattle-ranges,  run  in  tidy  parallels.  But  most 
of  the  county  is  flat,  —  so  flat  that  it  all  can 
be  viewed  from  Alderly  Edge,  a  cliff  six  hun¬ 
dred  and  fifty  feet  high,  a  little  to  the  west  of 
Macclesfield.  Along  the  Mersey,  the  Lan¬ 
castrian  boundary,  rise  the  clustered  chimneys 
of  Cheshire’s  cotton  towns.  Yet  cotton  is 
not  the  only  industry  of  this  northern  strip. 
The  neighbourhood  of  Manchester  makes 
market-gardening  profitable;  potatoes  and 
onions  flourish  amain;  and  Altrincham,  a 
pleasant  little  place  where  many  of  the  Man¬ 
chester  mill- owners  reside,  proudly  contributes 
to  their  felicity  its  famous  specialty  of  the 
“green- top  carrot.” 

I  suppose  these  cotton-lords  only  smile  dis¬ 
dainfully  at  the  tales  of  the  old  wizard  who 
keeps  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  armed 
steeds  in  the  deep  caverns  of  Alderly  Edge, 
waiting  for  war.  What  is  his  wizardry  to 
theirs !  But  I  wonder  if  any  of  them  are 
earning  a  sweeter  epitaph  than  the  one  which 
may  be  read  in  Alderly  Church  to  a  rector, 
Edward  Shipton,  M.A.,  —  it  might  grieve  his 

116 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


gentle  ghost,  should  we  omit  those  letters,  — ■ 
who  died  in  1630: 

“Here  lies  below  an  aged  sheep-heard  clad  in  heavy  clay, 

Those  stubbome  weedes  which  come  not  of  unto  the 
judgment  day. 

Whilom  hee  led  and  fed  with  welcome  paine  his  careful 
sheepe, 

He  did  not  feare  the  mountaines’  highest  tops,  nor  vallies 
deep, 

That  he  might  save  from  hurte  his  fearful  flocks,  which 
were  his  care. 

To  make  them  strong  he  lost  his  strengthe,  and  fasted  for 
their  fare. 

How  they  might  feed,  and  grow,  and  prosper,  he  did 
daily  tell. 

Then  having  shew’d  them  how  to  feed,  he  bade  them  all 
farewell.” 

Good  men  have  come  out  of  Cheshire.  In 
the  Rectory  House  of  Alderly  was  born  Dean 
Stanley.  Bishop  Heber  is  a  Cheshire  worthy, 
as  are  the  old  chroniclers,  Higden  and  Hol- 
inshead.  Even  the  phraseology  of  Cheshire 
wills  I  have  fancied  peculiarly  devout,  as,  for 
instance,  Matthew  Legh’s,  in  1512: 

“ Imprimis ,  I  bequeath  my  sole  to  almightie  got!  and 
to  his  blessed  moder  seynt  Mary,  and  to  all  the  selestiall 
company  in  heaven,  and  my  bodi  to  be  buried  in  the 
Chappell  of  Seynt  Anne  within  the  parish  Church  of 
Handley  or  there  where  it  shall  please  almightie  god  to 
call  for  me  at  his  pleasure.” 

117 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


The  men  of  Cheshire  have  on  occasion, 
and  conspicuously  during  the  Civil  War,  ap¬ 
proved  themselves  for  valour.  When  the 
royalist  garrison  of  Beeston  Castle,  the  “other 
hill  ”  of  this  pancake  county,  was  at  last  forced 
to  accept  terms  from  the  Roundhead  troops, 
there  was  “neither  meat  nor  drink  found  in 
the  Castle,  but  only  a  piece  of  a  turkey  pie, 
two  biscuits,  and  a  live  pea-cock  and  pea¬ 
hen.” 

Yet  Cheshire  is  famed  rather  for  the  virtues 
of  peace,  —  for  thrift,  civility,  and  neigh¬ 
bourly  kindness.  An  early- seventeenth- 
century  “Treatise  on  Cheshire”  says:  “The 
people  of  the  country  are  of  a  nature  very 
gentle  and  courteous,  ready  to  help  and  fur¬ 
ther  one  another;  and  that  is  to  be  seen 
chiefly  in  the  harvest  time,  how  careful  are 
they  of  one  another.”  A  few  years  later,  in 
1616,  a  native  of  the  county  wrote  of  it  not 
only  as  producing  “the  best  cheese  of  all 
Europe,”  but  as  blessed  with  women  “very 
friendly  and  loving,  painful  in  labour,  and  in 
all  other  kind  of  housewifery  expert.” 

The  accepted  chronicler  of  Cheshire  woman¬ 
hood,  however,  is  Mrs.  Gaskell.  As  we  lin¬ 
gered  along  the  pleasant  streets  of  Ivnutsford 

118 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


—  her  Cranford  —  and  went  in  and  out  ot 
the  quiet  shops,  we  blessed  her  memory  for 
having  so  delectably  distilled  the  lavender 
essences  of  that  sweet,  old-fashioned  village 
life.  She  had  known  it  and  loved  it  all  the 
way  from  her  motherless  babyhood,  and  she 
wrote  of  it  with  a  tender  humour  that  has 
endeared  it  to  thousands.  Our  first  Knuts- 
ford  pilgrimage  was  to  her  grave  beside  the 
old  Unitarian  chapel,  for  both  her  father  and 
her  husband  were  clergymen  of  that  faith. 
We  had  seen  in  Manchester  —  her  Drumble 

—  the  chapel  where  Mr.  Gaskell  ministered, 
and  had  read  her  “Mary  Barton,”  that  sym¬ 
pathetic  presentation  of  the  life  of  Lancashire 
mill-hands  which  awoke  the  anger  and  per¬ 
haps  the  consciences  of  the  manufacturers. 
She  served  the  poor  of  Manchester  not  with 
her  pen  alone,  but  when  our  war  brought 
in  its  train  the  cotton  famine  of  1862-63,  she 
came  effectively  to  their  relief  by  organizing 
sewing-rooms  and  other  means  of  employ¬ 
ment  for  women.  Husband  and  wife,  ful¬ 
filled  of  good  works,  now  rest  together  in  that 
sloping  little  churchyard  which  we  trod  with 
reverent  feet. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  Knutsford  is 
119 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


becoming  villaized.  It  has  even  suffered  the 
erection,  in  memory  of  Mrs.  Gaskell,  of  an 
ornate  Italian  tower,  which  Deborah  cer¬ 
tainly  would  not  have  approved.  It  was  not 
May-day,  so  we  could  not  witness  the  Knuts- 
ford  revival  of  the  May-queen  court,  and  we 
looked  in  vain  for  the  Knutsford  wedding 
sand.  On  those  very  rare  occasions  when 
a  bridegroom  can  be  found,  the  kith  and  kin 
of  the  happy  pair  make  a  welcoming  path  for 
Hymen  by  trickling  coloured  sands  through 
a  funnel  so  as  to  form  a  pavement  decoration 
of  hearts,  doves,  true-love  knots,  and  the  like, 
each  artist  in  front  of  his  own  house.  But 
no  minor  disappointments  could  break  the 
Cranford  spell,  which  still  held  us  as  we  drove 
out  into  the  surrounding  country.  How 
sunny  and  serene!  With  what  awe  we 
passed  the  timbered  mansions  of  the  county 
families !  What  green  hedgerows !  What 
golden  harvest- fields !  What  pink  roses 
clambering  to  the  cottage- thatch !  What 
gardens,  and  what  pastures  on  pastures, 
grazed  over  by  sleek  kine  that  called  to  mind 
Miss  Matty’s  whimsical  old  lover  and  his 
“six  and  twenty  cows,  named  after  the  dif¬ 
ferent  letters  of  the  alphabet.” 

120 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


Here  in  central  Cheshire  we  ought  not  to 
have  been  intent  on  scenery,  but  on  salt,  for 
of  this,  as  of  silk,  our  smiling  county  has 
almost  a  monopoly.  And  only  too  soon  the 
blue  day  was  darkened  by  the  smoke  of  North- 
wicli,  the  principal  seat  of  the  salt  trade  and 
quite  the  dirtiest  town  in  the  county.  The 
valley  of  the  Weaver,  the  river  that  crosses 
Cheshire  about  midway  between  its  northern 
boundary,  the  Mersey,  and  its  southern,  the 
Dee,  lias  the  richest  salt-mines  and  brine- 
springs  of  England.  The  salt  towns,  whose 
chimneys  belch  blackness  at  intervals  along 
the  course  of  the  stream,  are  seen  at  their  best, 
or  worst,  in  Northwich,  though  Nantwich,  an 
ancient  centre  of  this  industry,  has  charming 
traditions  of  the  village  hymn  that  used  to 
be  sung  about  the  flower-crowned  pits,  es¬ 
pecially  the  “Old  Brine,’’  on  Ascension  Day, 
in  thanksgiving  for  the  salt.  We  tried  to  take 
due  note  of  railways  and  canals,  docks  and 
foundries,  and  the  queer  unevenness  of  the 
soil  caused  by  the  mining  and  the  pumping 
up  of  brine,  —  such  an  uncertain  site  that 
the  houses,  though  bolted,  screwed,  and  but¬ 
tressed,  continually  sag  and  sink.  The  mines 
themselves  are  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town, 


A  GROUr  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


and  we  looked  at  the  ugly  sheds  and  scaffold¬ 
ings  above  ground,  and  did  our  best  to  imagine 
the  strange  white  galleries  and  gleaming  pillars 
below.  There  was  no  time  to  go  down  be¬ 
cause  it  had  taken  our  leisurely  Knutsford 
coachman  till  ten  o’clock  to  get  his  “bit  of 
breakfast.”  Dear  Miss  Matty  would  have 
been  gentle  with  him,  and  so  we  strove  not  to 
glower  at  his  unbending  back,  but  to  gather 
in  what  we  could,  as  he  drove  us  to  the  train, 
of  the  beauties  by  the  way. 

We  left  the  salt  to  the  care  of  the  Weaver, 
which  was  duly  bearing  it  on,  white  blocks, 
ruddy  lumps,  rock-salt  and  table-salt,  to  Run¬ 
corn  and  to  Liverpool.  We  put  the  brine- pits 
out  of  mind,  and  enjoyed  the  lovely  fresh¬ 
water  meres,  social  resorts  of  the  most  amiable 
of  ducks  and  the  most  dignified  of  geese, 
which  dot  the  Cheshire  landscape.  We  had 
visited  Rostherne  Mere  on  our  way  out,  and 
caught  a  glint  from  the  fallen  church-bell 
which  a  Mermaid  rings  over  those  dim  waters 
every  Easter  dawn.  We  paused  at  Lower 
Peover  for  a  glimpse  of  its  black-and-white 
timbered  church,  deeply  impressive  and 
almost  unique  as  an  architectural  survival. 
Among  its  curiosities  we  saw  a  chest  hollowed 

122 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


out  of  solid  oak  with  an  inscription  to  the 
effect  that  any  girl  who  can  raise  the  lid  with 
one  arm  is  strong  enough  to  be  a  Cheshire 
farmer’s  wife.  Sturdy  arms  they  needs  must 
have,  these  Cheshire  women,  for  the  valley 
of  the  Weaver,  like  the  more  southerly  Vale 
of  Dee,  is  largely  given  up  to  dairy  farms  and 
to  the  production  of  cheeses.  A  popular  song 
betrays  the  county  pride: 

“A  Cheshire  man  went  o’er  to  Spain 
To  trade  in  merchandise, 

And  when  arrived  across  the  main 
A  Spaniard  there  he  spies. 

“‘Thou  Cheshire  man,’  quoth  he,  ‘look  here, — 
These  fruits  and  spices  fine. 

Our  country  yields  these  twice  a  year; 

Thou  hast  not  such  in  thine.’ 

“The  Cheshire  man  soon  sought  the  hold. 

Then  brought  a  Cheshire  cheese. 

‘You  Spanish  dog,  look  here!’  said  he. 

‘You  have  not  such  as  these.’ 

‘“Your  land  produces  twice  a  year 
Spices  and  fruits,  you  say, 

But  such  as  in  my  hand  I  bear. 

Our  land  yields  twice  a  day.’” 

But  the  best  songs  of  Cheshire  go  to  the 
music  of  the  river  Dee.  We  have  all  had  our 
moments  of  envying  its  heart-free  Miller. 

123 


A  GROUP  OP  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


“There  was  a  jolly  Miller  once 
Lived  on  the  river  Dee; 

He  worked  and  sang  from  morn  till  night. 

No  lark  more  blithe  than  he; 

And  this  the  burden  of  his  song 
Forever  used  to  be: 

7  care  for  nobody,  no,  not  I, 

And  nobody  cares  for  me." 

Kingsley’s  tragic  lyric  of 

“Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee,” 

reports  too  truly  the  perils  of  that  wide  estu¬ 
ary  where  Lycidas  was  lost.  On  the  corre¬ 
sponding  estuary  of  the  Mersey  stands  Birken¬ 
head,  the  bustling  modern  port  of  Cheshire; 
but  it  was  at  Chester  that  Milton’s  college 
mate  had  embarked  for  another  haven  than 
the  one  he  reached. 

Chester  itself  is  to  many  an  American 
tourist  the  old-world  city  first  seen  and  best 
remembered.  Liverpool  and  Birkenhead  are 
of  to-day,  but  Chester,  walled,  turreted,  with 
its  arched  gateways,  its  timber- and-plastcr 
houses,  its  gables  and  lattices,  its  quaint  Rows, 
its  cathedral,  is  the  mediaeval  made  actual. 
The  city  abounds  in  memories  of  Romans, 
Britons,  Saxons,  of  King  Alfred  who  drove 

124  ~ 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


out  the  Danes,  of  King  Edgar  who,  “toucht 
with  imperious  affection  of  glory,”  compelled 
six  subject  kings  to  row  him  up  the  Dee  to 
St.  John’s  Church,  of  King  Charles  who  stood 
with  the  Mayor  on  the  leads  of  the  wall- tower 
now  called  by  his  name  and  beheld  the  defeat 
of  the  royal  army  on  Rowton  Moor.  As  we 
walked  around  the  walls,  —  where,  as  every¬ 
where  in  the  county,  the  camera  sought  in 
vain  for  a  Cheshire  cat,  —  we  talked  of  the 
brave  old  city’s  “strange,  eventful  history,” 
but  if  it  had  been  in  the  power  of  a  wish  to 
recall  any  one  hour  of  all  its  past,  I  would 
have  chosen  mine  out  of  some  long-faded 
Whitsuntide,  that  I  might  see  a  Miracle 
pageant  in  its  mediaeval  sincerity,  —  the  tan¬ 
ners  playing  the  tragedy  of  Lucifer’s  fall, 
perhaps,  or  the  water-carriers  the  comedy  of 
Noah’s  flood. 

III.  Staffordshire 

This  is  the  Black  Country  par  excellence ,  — 
a  county  whose  heraldic  blazon  should  be  the 
pillar  of  cloud  by  day  and  the  pillar  of  fire 
by  night.  It  belongs  to  the  central  plain  of 
England,  save  on  the  northeast,  where  the 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


lower  end  of  the  Pennine  chain  breaks  into 
picturesque  highlands.  Its  gently  undulating 
reaches  are  still  largely  given  over  to  agricul¬ 
ture,  but  the  bulk  of  its  population,  the  most 
of  its  energy  and  wealth,  are  concentrated  in 
the  manufacturing  towns  that  so  thickly  stud 
the  surface  over  its  two  coal-fields.  The 
northern  is  the  last  of  that  long  line  of  coal- 
measures  running  down  from  Lancashire ; 
the  southern  is  much  larger,  though  not  so 
workable,  and  extends  across  all  South  Staf¬ 
fordshire.  Both  north  and  south,  iron  in 
rich  quantities  is  found  with  the  coal,  so  that 
for  many  years  Staffordshire  controlled  the 
iron  trade  of  the  world.  Of  late.  South 
Wales  and  other  regions  are  successfully  dis¬ 
puting  its  supremacy. 

We  had,  in  previous  visits  to  England, 
crossed  Staffordshire  several  times  by  train, 
and  memory  retained  an  unattractive  impres¬ 
sion  of  netted  railways,  forests  of  factory  chim¬ 
neys,  and  grimy  miners  sweethearting  with 
rough  pitgirls  under  smoke  and  cinders.  If  we 
must  enter  it  now,  the  occasion  seemed  propi¬ 
tious  for  a  trial  of  the  automobile,  —  a  mode  of 
conveyance  which  we  had  deemed  too  sacrile¬ 
gious  for  the  Border  and  the  Lake  Country. 

126 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


Toward  ten  o’clock  on  an  August  morning 
—  for  the  chauffeur,  like  our  Cheshire  coach¬ 
man,  could  not  be  hurried  over  his  “bit  of 
breakfast”  —  we  tucked  ourselves  and  a  con¬ 
fiding  Shrewsbury  lady  into  a  snug  motor¬ 
car,  and  away  we  sped  through  northeastern 
Shropshire  across  the  county  line.  In  a  gasp 
or  two  the  name  Eccleshall  glimmered 
through  the  dust  that  flew  against  our  goggles. 
This  little  town  has  one  of  the  finest  churches 
in  the  county,  but  the  frenzy  of  speed  was  on 
us,  and  we  tore  by.  Suddenly  we  came  upon 
the  Trent,  winding  along,  at  what  struck 
us  as  a  contemptibly  sluggish  pace,  down 
Staffordshire  on  its  circuitous  route  to  the 
Humber.  We  tooted  our  horn  and  honked 
up  its  western  side  to  the  Potteries.  Here 
the  machine  suffered  an  attack  of  colic, 
and  while  it  was  groaning  and  running  around 
in  a  circle  and  pawing  the  air,  we  had  our 
first  opportunity  to  look  about  us. 

The  region  known  as  the  Potteries,  the 
chief  seat  of  the  earthenware  manufactures 
of  England,  consists  of  a  strip  of  densely 
populated  land  in  this  upper  basin  of  the 
Trent,  a  strip  some  ten  miles  long  by  two 
miles  broad,  whose  serried  towns  and  villages 

127 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


give  the  aspect  of  one  continuous  street. 
Within  this  narrow  district  are  over  three 
hundred  potteries,  whose  employees  number 
nearly  forty  thousand,  apart  from  the  acces¬ 
sory  industries  of  clay-grinding,  bone-grind¬ 
ing,  flint-grinding,  and  the  like.  It  draws 
on  its  own  beds  of  coal  and  iron,  but  the  china- 
clay  comes  from  Cornwall  by  way  of  Runcorn 
and  the  Grand  Trunk  Canal,  while  for  flints 
it  depends  on  the  south  coast  of  England  and 
on  France.  Genius  here  is  named  Josiah 
Wedgwood.  This  inventor  of  fine  porce¬ 
lains,  whose  “Queen’s  ware”  gained  him 
the  title  of  “Queen’s  Potter,”  was  born  in 
1759  at  Burslem,  which  had  been  making 
brown  butter- pots  as  far  back  as  the  days  of 
Charles  I.  When  Burslem  grew  too  small 
for  his  enterprise,  Wedgwood  established  the 
pottery  village  of  Etruria,  to  which  the  auto¬ 
mobile  passionately  refused  to  take  us.  It 
dashed  us  into  Newcastle-under-Lyme,  where 
we  did  not  particularly  want  to  go,  and  rushed 
barking  by  Stoke- under- Trent,  the  capital 
of  the  Potteries  and  also  —  though  we  had 
not  breath  to  mention  it  —  the  birthplace  of 
Dinah  Mulock  Craik.  In  the  last  town  of 
the  line,  Longtown,  our  machine  fairly  balked, 

128 


IN  THE  POTTERIES -  A  CHILD-MOTHER 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


and  the  chauffeur  with  dignity  retired  under 
it.  A  crowd  of  keen-faced  men  and  children 
gathered  about  us,  while  we  ungoggled  to 
observe  the  endless  ranks  of  house -doors 
opening  into  baby-peopled  passages,  —  and, 
looming  through  the  murky  air,  the  bulging 
ovens  of  the  china  factories.  At  last  our 
monster  snorted  on  again,  wiggling  up  the 
hill  sideways  with  a  grace  peculiar  to  itself 
and  exciting  vain  hopes  of  a  wreck  in  the 
hearts  of  our  attendant  urchins.  It  must 
have  been  the  Potteries  that  disagreed  with 
it,  for  no  sooner  were  their  files  of  chimmeys 
left  behind  than  it  set  off  at  a  mad  pace  for 
Uttoxeter,  on  whose  outskirts  we  “  alighted,” 
like  Royalty,  for  a  wayside  luncheon  of  sand¬ 
wiches,  ale,  and  dust. 

Uttoxeter  is  no  longer  the  idle  little  town 
that  Hawthorne  found  it,  when  he  made  pil¬ 
grimage  thither  in  honour  of  Dr.  Johnson’s 
penance,  for  the  good  Doctor,  heart-troubled 
for  fifty  years  because  in  boyhood  he  once 
refused  to  serve  in  his  father’s  stead  at  the 
market  bookstall,  had  doomed  himself  to 
stand,  the  whole  day  long,  in  the  staring- 
mar  ket- place,  wind  and  rain  beating  against 
his  bared  grey  head,  “  a  central  image 
0  129 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


of  Memory  and  Remorse.”  Lichfield,  Dr. 
Johnson’s  native  city,  commemorates  this 
characteristic  act  by  a  bas-relief  on  the  pedes¬ 
tal  of  the  statue  standing  opposite  the  three- 
pillared  house  where  the  greatest  of  her  sons 
was  born. 

While  our  chauffeur,  resting  from  his  labours 
under  the  hedge,  genially  entertained  the 
abuse  of  a  drunken  tramp  who  was  accusing 
us  all  of  luxury,  laziness,  and  a  longing  to 
run  down  our  fellowmen,  my  thoughts  turned 
wistfully  to  Lichfield,  lying  due  south,  to 
whose  “  Queen  of  English  Minsters”  we  were 
ashamed  to  present  our  modern  hippogriff. 
I  remembered  waking  there  one  autumnal 
morning,  years  ago,  at  the  famous  old  inn  of 
the  Swan,  and  peering  from  my  window  to 
see  that  wooden  bird,  directly  beneath  it, 
flapping  in  a  rainy  gale.  The  cathedral  rose 
before  the  mental  vision,  —  the  grace  of  its 
three  spires;  its  wonderful  west  front  with 
tiers  of  saints  and  prophets  and  archangels, 
“a  very  Te  Deum  in  stone”;  the  delicate 
harmonies  of  colour  and  line  within;  the 
glowing  windows  of  the  Lady  Chapel;  the 
“  heaven- loved  innocence  ”  of  the  two  little 
sisters  sculptured  by  Chantrey,  and  his  kneel- 

130 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


ing  effigy  of  a  bishop  so  benignant  even  in 
marble  that  a  passing  child  slipped  from  her 
mother’s  hand  and  knelt  beside  him  to  say 
her  baby  prayers.  What  books  had  been 
shown  me  there  in  that  quiet  library  above 
the  chapter- house !  I  could  still  recall  the 
richly  illuminated  manuscript  of  the  “Can¬ 
terbury  Tales,”  a  volume  of  Dr.  South’s  ser¬ 
mons  with  Dr.  Johnson’s  rough,  vigorous 
pencil- marks  all  up  and  down  the  margins, 
and,  treasure  of  treasures,  an  eighth-century 
manuscript  of  St.  Chad’s  Gospels.  For  this 
is  St.  Chad’s  cathedral,  still  his,  though  the 
successive  churches  erected  on  this  site  have 
passed  like  human  generations,  each  building 
itself  into  the  next. 

St.  Chad,  hermit  and  bishop,  came  from 
Ireland  as  an  apostle  to  Mercia  in  the  seventh 
century.  Among  his  first  converts  were  the 
king’s  two  sons,  martyred  for  their  faith. 
Even  in  these  far  distant  days  his  tradition 
is  revered,  and  on  Holy  Thursday  the  choris¬ 
ters  of  the  cathedral  yet  go  in  procession  to 
St.  Chad’s  Well,  bearing  green  boughs  and 
chanting.  A  century  or  so  ago,  the  well  was 
adorned  with  bright  garlands  for  this  festival. 
The  boy  Addison,  whose  father  was  Dean  of 

131 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


Lichfield,  may  have  gathered  daffodils  and 
primroses  to  give  to  good  St.  Chad. 

The  ancient  city  has  other  memories.  Far- 
quhar  set  the  scene  of  his  “Beaux’  Stratagem” 
there.  Major  Andre  knew  those  shaded 
walks.  In  the  south  transept  of  the  cathe¬ 
dral  is  the  sepulchre  of  Garrick,  whose  death, 
the  inscription  tells  us,  “eclipsed  the  gaiety 
of  nations  and  impoverished  the  public  stock 
of  harmless  pleasure.”  It  may  be  recalled 
that  Hawthorne  found  it  “really  pleasant”  to 
meet  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu’s  tomb  in 
the  minster,  and  that  Scott  asserts  there  used 
to  be,  in  “moated  Lichfield’s  lofty  pile,”  a 
monument  to  Marmion,  whose  castle  stood  a 
few  miles  to  the  southeast,  at  Tamworth. 

But  the  motor-car,  full-fed  with  gasoline, 
would  brook  no  further  pause.  As  self- 
important  as  John  Hobs,  the  famous  Tanner 
of  Tamworth  whom  “not  to  know  was  to 
know  nobody,”  it  stormed  through  Uttoxeter 
and  on,  outsmelling  the  breweries  of  Burton- 
on-Trent.  Ducks,  hens,  cats,  dogs,  babies, 
the  aged  and  infirm,  the  halt  and  the  blind, 
scuttled  to  left  and  right.  Policemen  glared 
out  at  it  from  their  “  motor-  traps  ”  in  the 
hedges.  A  group  of  small  boys  sent  a  rattle 

ISi 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


of  stones  against  it.  Rocester!  Only  three 
miles  away  were  the  ruins  of  the  Cistercian 
Abbey  of  Croxden.  We  would  have  liked 
to  see  them,  if  only  to  investigate  the  story 
that  the  heart  of  King  John  is  buried  there, 
for  we  had  never  before  heard  that  he  had 
a  heart;  but  while  we  were  voicing  our  desire 
we  had  already  crossed  the  Dove  and  whizzed 
into  Derbyshire. 

Dovedale  was  our  goal.  This  beautiful 
border  district  of  Derby  and  Staffordshire 
abounds  in  literary  associations.  Near  Ham 
Hall,  whose  grounds  are  said  to  have  sug¬ 
gested  to  Dr.  Johnson  the  “happy  valley’’ 
in  “Rasselas,”  and  in  whose  grotto  Congreve 
wrote  his  “Old  Bachelor,’’  stands  the  famous 
Isaak  Walton  Inn.  The  patron  saint  of  the 
region  is  the  Gentle  Angler,  who  in  these 
“flowery  meads”  and  by  these  “crystal 
streams”  loved  to 

“see  a  blaek-bird  feed  her  young, 

Or  a  laverock  build  her  nest.” 

Here  he  would  raise  his 

“low-pitched  thoughts  above 
Earth,  or  what  poor  mortals  love.” 

On  a  stone  at  the  source  of  the  Dove,  and 
again  on  the  Fishing-House  which  has  stood 

133 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


since  1674  “Piscatoribus  sacrum,”  his  initials 
are  interlaced  with  those  of  his  friend  and 
fellow-fisherman  Charles  Cotton,  the  patron 
sinner  of  the  locality.  In  Beresford  Dale 
may  be  found  the  little  cave  where  this  gay 
and  thriftless  gentleman,  author  of  the  second 
part  of  “The  Complete  Angler,”  used  to  hide 
from  his  creditors.  At  Wootton  Hall  Jean 
Jacques  Rousseau  once  resided  for  over  a 
year,  writing  on  his  “  Confessions  ”  and  amus¬ 
ing  himself  by  scattering  through  Dovedale 
the  seeds  of  many  of  the  mountain  plants  of 
France.  In  a  cottage  at  Church  Mayfield, 
Moore  wrote  his  “Lalla  Rookh,”  and  near 
Colwich  Abbey  once  stood  the  house  in  which 
Handel  composed  much  of  the  “Messiah.” 

We  did  not  see  any  of  these  spots.  The 
automobile  would  none  of  them.  It  whisked 
about  giddily  half  an  hour,  ramping  into 
the  wrong  shrines  and  out  again,  discon¬ 
certing  a  herd  of  deer  and  a  pack  of  young 
fox-hounds,  and  then  impetuously  bolted 
back  to  Uttoxeter.  There  were  antiquities 
all  along  the  wTay,  —  British  barrows,  Roman 
camps,  mediaeval  churches,  Elizabethan  man¬ 
sions,  —  but  the  dusty  and  odoriferous  trail  of 
our  car  was  flung  impartially  over  them  all. 

134 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 

We  shot  through  Uttoxeterand  went  whir¬ 
ring  on.  A  glimpse  of  the  hillside  ruins  of 
Chartley  Castle  brought  a  fleeting  sorrow  for 
Mary  Queen  of  Scots.  It  was  one  of  those 
many  prisons  that  she  knew  in  the  bitter  years 
between  Cockermouth  and  Fotheringay,  — 
the  years  that  whitened  her  bright  hair  and 
twisted  her  with  cruel  rheumatism.  She  was 
harried  from  Carlisle  in  Cumberland  to 
Bolton  Castle  in  Yorkshire,  and  thence  sent 
to  Tutbury,  on  the  Derby  side  of  the  Dove, 
in  custody  of  the  unlucky  Earl  of  Shrewsbury 
and  his  bright-eyed,  shrewish-tongued  dame, 
Bess  of  Hardwick.  But  still  the  poor  queen 
was  shifted  from  one  stronghold  to  another. 
Yorkshire  meted  out  to  her  Elizabeth’s  harsh 
hospitality  at  Sheffield,  Warwickshire  at 
Coventry,  Leicestershire  at  Ashby- de-la- 
Zouch,  Derbyshire  at  Wingfield  Manor  and 
Chatsworth  and  Hardwick  Hall,  even  at 
Buxton,  where  she  was  occasionally  allowed 
to  go  for  the  baths,  and  Staffordshire  at  Tixall 
and  here  at  Chartley.  It  was  while  she  was 
at  Chartley,  with  Sir  Amyas  Paulet  for  her 
jailer,  that  the  famous  Babington  conspiracy 
was  hatched,  and  anything  but  an  automo¬ 
bile  would  have  stopped  and  searched  for  that 

1S5 


A  GROUP  OF  INDUSTRIAL  COUNTIES 


stone  wall  in  which  a  brewer’s  boy  deposited 
the  incriminating  letters,  read  and  copied 
every  one  by  Walsingham  before  they  reached 
the  captive. 

At  Weston  we  jumped  the  Trent  again 
and  pounded  on  to  Stafford,  the  shoemakers’ 
town,  where  we  came  near  knocking  two 
bicyclists  into  a  ditch.  They  were  plain- 
spoken  young  men,  and,  addressing  them¬ 
selves  to  the  chauffeur,  they  expressed  an 
unfavourable  opinion  of  his  character.  Staf¬ 
ford  lies  half-way  between  the  two  coal-fields 
of  the  county.  Directly  south  some  fifteen 
miles  is  Wolverhampton,  the  capital  of  the 
iron-manufacturing  district.  We  remem¬ 
bered  that  Stafford  was  the  birthplace  of 
Isaak  Walton,  but  it  was  too  late  to  gain 
access  to  the  old  Church  of  St.  Mary’s, 
which  has  his  bust  in  marble  and,  to  boot, 
the  strangest  font  in  England.  We  climbed 
the  toilsome  heights  of  Stafford  Castle  for  the 
view  it  was  too  dark  to  see,  and  then  once 
more  delivered  ourselves  over  to  the  champ¬ 
ing  monster,  which  spun  us  back  to  Shrews¬ 
bury  through  a  weird,  infernal  world  flaring 
with  tongues  of  fire. 


133 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND- 
WARWICKSHIRE 


A  FEW  miles  to  the  northwest  of  Coven¬ 
try  lies  the  village  of  Meriden,  which  is 
called  the  centre  of  England.  There 
on  a  tableland  is  a  little  pool  from  which  the 
water  flows  both  west  and  east,  on  the  one 
side  reaching  the  Severn  and  the  British  Chan¬ 
nel,  on  the  other  the  Trent  and  the  North  Sea. 
“Leafy  Warwickshire”  is  watered,  as  all  the 
world  knows,  by  the  Avon.  The  county, 
though  its  borders  show  here  and  there  a  hilly 
fringe,  and  though  the  spurs  of  the  Cotswolds 
invade  it  on  the  south,  is  in  the  main  a  fertile 
river-basin,  given  over  to  agriculture  and  to 
pasturage.  The  forest  of  Arden,  that  once 
covered  the  Midlands,  is  still  suggested  by 
rich- timbered  parks,  and  giant  trees  of  an¬ 
cient  memory.  On  the  north,  Warwickshire 
tapers  up  into  the  Staffordshire  coal-fields 
and  puts  on  a  manufacturing  character.  The 
great  town  of  this  district  is  Birmingham, 
capital  of  the  hardware  industries. 

137 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


It  was  from  Birmingham  that  we  started 
out  on  our  Warwickshire  trip.  We  had  but 
a  hasty  impression  of  a  well-built,  prosperous, 
purposeful  town,  but  if  we  had  known  at  the 
time  what  masterpieces  of  the  Pre-Raphaelite 
Brotherhood  were  to  be  seen  in  the  Art  Gal¬ 
lery  we  would  have  taken  a  later  train  than 
we  did  for  Nuneaton.  Here  we  bade  farewell 
to  railways,  having  decided  to  “  post  ”  through 
the  county.  Our  automobile  scamper  across 
Staffordshire  had  left  us  with  a  conviction  that 
this  mode  of  travel  was  neither  democratic 
nor  becoming,  —  least  of  all  adapted  to  a 
literary  pilgrimage.  We  preferred  to  drive 
ourselves,  but  the  English  hostlers,  shaking 
their  stolid  heads,  preferred  that  we  should 
be  driven.  It  was  only  by  a  lucky  chance 
that  we  had  found,  in  the  Lake  Country,  a 
broad-minded  butcher  who  would  trust  us  on 
short  expeditions  with  “Toby”  and  a  pony- 
cart.  After  all,  it  is  easier  to  adapt  yourself 
to  foreign  ways  than  to  adapt  them  to  you, 
and  the  old,  traditional,  respectable  method 
of  travel  in  England  is  by  post.  The  regular 
rate  for  a  victoria  —  which  carries  light  lug¬ 
gage  —  and  a  single  horse  is  a  shilling  a  mile, 
with  no  charge  for  return,  but  with  a  consider- 

138 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


able  tip  to  the  driver.  In  out-of-the-way 
places  the  rate  was  sometimes  only  ninepence 
a  mile,  but  in  the  regions  most  affected  by 
tourists  it  might  run  up  to  eighteenpence.  So 
at  Nuneaton  we  took  a  carriage  for  Coventry, 
a  distance,  with  the  digressions  we  proposed, 
of  about  twelve  miles,  and  set  out,  on  a  fair 
August  afternoon,  to  explore  the  George 
Eliot  country. 

Our  driver  looked  blank  at  the  mention  of 
George  Eliot,  but  brightened  at  the  name  of 
Mary  Anne  Evans.  He  could  not  locate  for 
us,  however,  the  school  which  she  had  at¬ 
tended  in  Nuneaton,  but  assured  us  that  “Mr. 
Jones  ’ud  know.”  To  consult  this  oracle  we 
drove  through  a  prosaic  little  town,  dodging 
the  flocks  of  sheep  that  were  coming  in 
for  the  fair,  to  a  stationer’s  shop.  Mr. 
Jones,  the  photographer  of  the  neighbour¬ 
hood,  proved  to  be  as  well  versed  in  George 
Eliot  literature  and  George  Eliot  localities 
as  he  was  generous  in  imparting  his  knowl¬ 
edge.  He  mapped  out  our  course  with  all 
the  concern  and  kindliness  of  a  host,  and 
practically  conferred  upon  us  the  freedom  of 
the  city. 

Nuneaton  was  as  placidly  engaged  in  mak- 
1S0 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


ing  hats  and  ribbons  as  if  the  foot  of  genius 
had  never  hallow  ed  its  soil,  and  went  its  wavs 
regardless  while  we  peered  out  at  inns  and 
residences  mirrored  in  George  Eliot’s  writ¬ 
ings.  The  school  to  w'hich  Robert  Evans’ 
“little  lass”  used  to  ride  in  on  donkeyback 
every  morning,  as  the  farmers’  daughters  ride 
still,  is  The  Elms  on  Vicarage  Street,  —  a 
plain  bit  of  a  place,  wTith  its  bare  walls  and 
hard  forms,  to  have  been  the  scene  of  the 
awakening  of  that  keen  intelligence.  We 
were  duly  shown  the  cloak- closet,  to  reach 
whose  hooks  a  girl  of  eight  or  nine  must  have 
had  to  stand  on  tiptoe,  the  small  classrooms, 
and  the  backyard  that  served  as  a  playground. 
The  educational  equipment  wras  of  the  sim¬ 
plest,  —  but  wThat  of  that  ?  Hamlet  could 
have  been  “bounded  in  a  nutshell,”  and  here 
there  was  space  enough  for  thought.  A  Nun¬ 
eaton  lady,  lodging  writh  the  caretaker  dur¬ 
ing  the  vacation,  told  us  with  a  touch  of  quiet 
pride  that  her  husband  had  known  “Marian 
Evans”  well  in  their  young  days,  and  had 
often  walked  home  writh  her  of  an  evening 
from  the  rectory. 

As  w*e  drove  awray  toward  that  rectory  in 
Chilvers  Coton,  the  parish  adjoining  Nunea- 

140 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


ton  on  the  south,  we  could  almost  see  the 
little  schoolgirl  riding  homeward  on  her 
donkey.  It  is  Maggie  Tulliver,  of  “The  Mill 
on  the  Floss,”  who  reveals  the  nature  of  that 
tragic  child,  “a  creature  full  of  eager  and 
passionate  longing  for  all  that  was  beau¬ 
tiful  and  glad ;  thirsty  for  all  knowledge ; 
with  an  ear  straining  after  dreamy  music  that 
died  away,  and  would  not  come  near  to  her; 
with  a  blind,  unconscious  yearning  for  some¬ 
thing  that  would  link  together  the  wonderful 
impressions  of  this  mysterious  life,  and  give 
her  soul  a  sense  of  home  in  it.” 

Chilvers  Coton,  like  Nuneaton,  has  no 
memories  of  its  famous  woman  of  letters. 
The  only  time  we  saw  her  name  that  after¬ 
noon  was  as  we  drove,  two  hours  later,  through 
a  grimy  colliery  town  where  a  row  of  posters 
flaunted  the  legend : 

ASK  FOR  GEORGE  ELIOT  SAUCE. 

But  in  the  Chilvers  Coton  church,  familiar 
to  readers  of  “Scenes  from  Clerical  Life,”  is 
a  window  given  by  Mr.  Isaac  Evans  in 
memory  of  his  wife,  not  of  his  sister,  with  an 
inscription  so  like  Tom  Tulliver’s  way  of 

141 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


admonishing  Maggie  over  the  shoulder  that 
we  came  near  resenting  it: 

“She  layeth  her  hands  to  the  spindle.” 

But  we  would  not  flout  the  domestic  virtues, 
and  still  less  would  we  begrudge  Tom’s  wife 
—  not  without  her  share  of  shadow,  for  no 
people  are  so  hard  to  live  with  as  those  who 
are  always  right  —  her  tribute  of  love  and 
honour.  So  with  closed  lips  we  followed  the 
sexton  out  into  the  churchyard,  past  the  much 
visited  grave  of  “Milly  Barton,”  past  the 
large  recumbent  monument  that  covers  the 
honest  ashes  of  Robert  Evans  of  Griff,  and 
past  so  many  fresh  mounds  that  we  exclaimed 
in  dismay.  Our  guide,  however,  viewed  them 
with  a  certain  decorous  satisfaction,  and  inti¬ 
mated  that  for  this  branch  of  his  craft  times 
were  good  in  Chilvers  Coton,  for  an  epidemic 
was  rioting  among  the  children.  “I’ve  had 
twelve  graves  this  month  already,”  he  said, 
“and  there” — pointing  to  where  a  spade 
stood  upright  in  a  heap  of  earth  —  “I ’ve  got 
another  to-day.”  We  demurred  about  de¬ 
taining  him,  with  such  pressure  of  business 
on  his  hands,  but  he  had  already  led  us,  over 
briars  and  sunken  slabs,  to  a  stone  inscribed 

142 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


with  the  name  of  Isaac  Pearson  Evans  of 
Griff  and  with  the  text: 

“The  memory  of  the  just  is  blessed.” 

As  we  stood  there,  with  our  attendant  ghoul 
telling  us,  in  rambling,  gossipy  fashion,  what 
a  respectable  man  Mr.  Isaac  Evans  was,  and 
that  he  never  would  have  anything  to  do  with 
“his  sister  for  years,  but  after  she  married 
Mr.  Cross  he  took  her  up  again  and  went  to 
her  funeral,”  —  how  could  we  force  out  of 
mind  a  passage  that  furnishes  such  strange 
commentary  on  that  graven  line  ? 

“Tom,  indeed,  was  of  opinion  that  Maggie  was  a 
silly  little  thing.  All  girls  were  silly.  .  .  .  Still  he  was 
very  fond  of  his  sister,  and  meant  always  to  take  care 
of  her,  make  her  his  housekeeper,  and  punish  her  when 
she  did  wrong.  .  .  .  Tom,  you  perceive,  was  rather  a 
Rhadamanthine  personage,  having  more  than  the  usual 
share  of  boy’s  justice  in  him  —  the  justice  that  desires 
to  hurt  culprits  as  much  as  they  deserve  to  be  hurt,  and 
is  troubled  with  no  doubts  concerning  the  exact  amount 
of  their  deserts.” 

It  is  in  this  parish  of  Chilvers  Coton  that 
George  Eliot  was  born,  in  a  quiet  brown 
house  set  among  laden  apple-trees,  as  we  saw 
it.  with  a  bnght,  old-fashioned  garden  of 

148 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


dahlias,  sweet  peas,  and  hollyhocks.  The 
place  is  known  as  South  Farm  or  Arbury 
Farm,  for  it  is  on  the  grounds  of  Arbury 
Priory,  one  of  the  smaller  monasteries  that 
fell  prey  to  Henry  VIII,  now  held  by  the  New- 
digate  family.  We  drove  to  it  through  a 
park  of  noble  timber,  where  graceful  deer 
were  nibbling  the  aristocratic  turf  or  making 
inquisitive  researches  among  the  rabbit  war¬ 
rens.  Robert  Evans,  of  Welsh  origin,  was 
a  Staffordshire  man.  A  house-builder’s  son, 
he  had  himself  begun  life  as  a  carpenter. 
Adam  Bede  was  made  in  his  likeness.  Ris¬ 
ing  to  the  position  of  forester  and  then  to  that 
of  land  agent,  he  was  living,  at  the  time  of  his 
daughter’s  birth,  at  Arbury  Farm,  in  charge 
of  the  Newdigate  estate.  Three  or  four 
months  later  he  removed  to  Griff,  an  old 
brick  farmhouse  standing  at  a  little  distance 
from  the  park,  on  the  highroad.  Griff  House 
passed,  in  due  course  of  time,  from  the  occu¬ 
pancy  of  Robert  Evans  to  that  of  his  son,  and 
on  the  latter’s  death,  a  few  years  ago,  was 
converted  into  a  Dairy  School  “for  gentle¬ 
man-farmers’  daughters.”  Pleasant  and  be¬ 
nignant  was  its  look  that  August  afternoon, 
as  it  stood  well  back  among  its  beautiful 

144 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


growth  of  trees,  —  cut-leaf  birch  and  yellow¬ 
ing  chestnut,  Cedar  of  Lebanon,  pine,  locust, 
holly,  oak,  and  yew,  with  a  pear-tree  pleached 
against  the  front  wall  on  one  side,  while  the 
other  was  thickly  overgrown  with  ivy.  Gera¬ 
niums  glowed  about  the  door,  and  the  mellow 
English  sunshine  lay  softly  over  all.  This 
was  a  sweet  and  tender  setting  for  the  figure 
of  that  ardent  wonder-child,  —  a  figure  im¬ 
agination  could  not  disassociate  from  that  of 
the  sturdy  elder  brother,  whose  presence  — 
if  he  were  in  affable  and  condescending  mood 
—  made  her  paradise. 

“They  trotted  along  and  sat  down  together,  with  no 
thought  that  life  would  ever  change  much  for  them. 
They  would  only  get  bigger  and  not  go  to  school,  and 
it  would  always  be  like  the  holidays ;  they  would  always 
live  together  and  be  fond  of  each  other.  .  .  .  Life  did 
change  for  Tom  and  Maggie;  and  yet  they  were  not 
wrong  in  believing  that  the  thoughts  and  loves  of  those 
first  years  would  always  make  part  of  their  lives.  We 
could  never  have  loved  this  earth  so  well  if  we  had  had 
no  childhood  in  it.” 

We  forgave,  as  we  lingered  in  that  gracious 
scene,  “the  memory  of  the  just.”  For  all 
Tom’s  virtues,  he  had  given  Maggie,  though 
she  was  her  father’s  darling  and  had  no  lack 
10  145 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


of  indulgent  love  about  her,  the  best  happi¬ 
ness  of  her  childhood.  Across  the  years  of 
misunderstanding  and  separation  she  could 
write : 

“But  were  another  childhood’s  world  my  share, 

I  would  be  born  a  little  sister  there.” 

We  had  even  a  disloyal  impulse  of  sym¬ 
pathy  for  these  kinsfolk  of  genius,  who  must 
needs  pay  the  price  by  having  their  inner 
natures  laid  bare  before  the  world,  but  we 
checked  it.  Our  worlds,  little  or  large,  are 
bound  to  say  and  believe  something  concern¬ 
ing  us:  let  us  be  content  in  proportion  as  it 
approximates  the  truth. 

Our  road  to  Coventry  ran  through  a  min¬ 
ing  district.  Every  now  and  then  we  met 
groups  of  black-faced  colliers.  Robert  Evans 
must  often  have  driven  his  daughter  along 
this  wav,  for  in  her  early  teens  she  was  at 
school  in  the  City  of  the  Three  Spires,  and 
later  on,  when  her  widowed  father  resigned 
to  his  son  his  duties  as  land  agent,  and  Griff 
House  with  them,  she  removed  there  with  him 
to  make  him  a  new  home.  The  house  is  still 
to  be  seen  in  Foleshill  road,  on  the  approach 
from  the  north ;  but  here  the  star  of  George 

146 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


Eliot  pales  before  a  greater  glory,  the  all- 
eclipsing  splendour,  for  at  Coventry  we  are 
on  the  borders  of  the  Shakespeare  country. 

Stratford-on-Avon  lies  only  twenty  miles 
to  the  south,  and  what  were  twenty  miles  to 
the  creator  of  Ariel  and  Puck?  Surely  his 
young  curiosity  must  have  brought  him  early 
to  this 


“Quaint  old  town  of  toil  and  trouble, 

Quaint  old  town  of  art  and  song.” 

The  noble  symmetries  of  St.  Michael’s,  its 
companion  spires  of  Holy  Trinity  and  Grey 
Friars,  the  narrow  streets  and  over-jutting 
housetops,  the  timber-framed  buildings,  the 
frescoed  walls  and  carven  window- heads,  all 
that  we  see  to-day  of  the  mediaeval  fashion  he 
must  have  seen  in  fresher  beauty,  and  far 
more;  yet  even  then  the  glory  of  Coventry 
had  departed.  From  the  eleventh  century, 
when  Leofric,  Earl  of  Mercia,  and  his  Coun¬ 
tess  of  beloved  memory,  the  Lady  Godiva, 
built  their  magnificent  abbey,  of  which  hardly 
a  trace  remains,  the  city  had  been  noted  for  its 
religious  edifices.  Its  triple-spired  cathedral 
of  St.  Mary,  —  existing  to-day  in  but  a  few 
foundation  fragments,  —  its  monasteries  and 

147 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


nunneries  and  churches  of  the  various  orders 
formed  an  architectural  group  unmatched 
in  England.  Coventry  was  conspicuous,  too, 
for  civic  virtues.  As  its  merchants  increased 
in  riches,  they  lavished  them  freely  on  their 
queenly  town.  The  Earl  in  his  now  crumbled 
castle  and  the  Lord  Abbot  had  hitherto  di¬ 
vided  the  rule,  but  in  134.5  came  the  first 
Mayor.  It  was  while  the  Rose-red  Richard 
sat  so  gaily  on  his  rocking  throne  that  Cov¬ 
entry  celebrated  the  completion  of  its  massive 
walls,  three  miles  in  circuit,  with  twelve  gates 
and  thirty- two  towers.  In  the  middle  of  the 
fifteenth  century  it  received  a  special  charter, 
and  Henry  VI  declared  it  “the  best  governed 
city  in  all  his  realm.”  It  Avas  then  that  the 
famous  guilds  of  Co\Tentry  were  at  their 
height,  for  its  merchants  had  waxed  wealthy 
in  the  wool  trade,  and  its  artisans  were  cun¬ 
ning  at  cloth-making. 

As  we  stood  in  St.  Mary’s  Hall,  erected 
toward  the  end  of  the  fourteenth  centurv  by 
the  united  fraternities  known  as  the  Holy 
Trinity  Guild,  we  realised  something  of  the 
devotional  spirit  and  artistic  joy  of  those  old 
craftsmen.  The  oak  roof  of  the  Great  Hall 
is  exquisitely  figured  with  a  choir  of  angels 

148 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


playing  on  their  divers  instruments.  In  the 
kitchen  —  such  a  kitchen,  with  stone  arches 
and  fine  old  timber- work !  —  another  angel 
peeps  dowrn  to  see  that  the  service  of  spit  and 
gridiron  is  decorously  done.  The  building 
throughout  abounds  in  carved  panels,  groined 
roofs,  state  chairs  of  elaborate  design,  heraldic 
insignia,  portraits,  grotesques,  and  displays 
a  marvellous  tapestry,  peopled  with  a  softly 
fading  company  of  saints  and  bishops,  kings 
and  queens. 

Among  the  Coventry  artists,  that  glad¬ 
some  throng  of  architects,  painters,  weavers, 
goldsmiths,  and  silversmiths  who  wrought  so 
wrell  for  the  adornment  of  their  city,  John 
Thornton  is  best  remembered.  It  was  he 
who  made  —  so  they  say  at  Coventry  —  the 
east  window^  of  York  minster,  and  here  in  St. 
Mary’s  Hall  he  placed  superb  stained  glass 
of  harmoniously  blended  browns.  We  could 
fancy  a  Stratford  boy  vTith  hazel  eyes  intent 
upon  it,  conning  the  faces  of  those  English 
kings  to  whom  he  was  to  give  new'  life  and 
longer  reigns.  Henry  VI  holds  the  centre, 
thus  revealing  the  date  of  the  window,  and 
near  him  are  Henry  IV  and  Henry  V,  Lan¬ 
castrian  usurpers  to  w'hose  side  the  partial 

149 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


dramatist  has  lured  us  all.  It  was  to  join 
their  forces  at  Shrewsbury  that  he  sent  Fal- 
staff  marching  through  Coventry  with  his 
ragged  regiment,  whose  every  soldier  looked 
like  “Lazarus  in  the  painted  cloth.”  Richard 
II  is  conspicuous  by  his  absence,  but  in  writ¬ 
ing  his  tragedy  the  young  Shakespeare  re¬ 
membered  that  Coventry  was  the  scene  of 
the  attempted  trial  at  arms  between  Boling- 
broke  and  the  Duke  of  Norfolk.  The  secret 
cause  of  the  combat  involved  the  honour  of 
Richard,  and  he,  not  daring  to  trust  the  issue, 
threw  “his  warder  down,”  forbade  the  duel, 
and  sentenced  both  champions  to 

“tread  the  stranger  paths  of  banishment.” 

But  Shakespeare’s  Coventry,  like  Shake¬ 
speare’s  London,  was  largely  a  city  of  ruins. 
Broken  towers  and  desolate  courts  told  of 
the  ruthless  sweep  of  the  Reformation.  The 
cloth  trade,  too,  wTas  falling  off,  and  even  that 
blue  thread  whose  steadfast  dye  gave  rise  to 
the  proverb  “True  as  Coventry  blue”  was 
less  in  demand  under  Elizabeth  than  under 
Henry  VIII.  Yet  though  so  much  of  its 
noble  ecclesiastical  architecture  was  defaced 
or  overthrown,  though  its  tide  of  fortune  had 

150 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 

turned,  the  city  was  lovely  still,  among  its 
most  charming  buildings  being  various  charit¬ 
able  institutions  founded  and  endowed  by 
wealthy  citizens.  That  exquisite  timber-and- 
plaster  almshouse  for  aged  women,  Ford’s 
Hospital,  then  almost  new,  may  have  gained 
in  mellow  tints  with  time,  but  its  rich  wood¬ 
work,  one  fretted  story  projecting  over  an¬ 
other  like  the  frilled  heads  of  antiquated 
dames,  row  above  row,  peering  out  to  see 
what  might  be  passing  in  the  street  beneath, 
must  have  delighted  the  vision  then  as  it  de¬ 
lights  it  still.  I  dare  say  Will  Shakespeare, 
saucy  lad  that  he  was,  doffed  his  cap  and 
flashed  a  smile  as  reviving  as  a  beam  of  sun¬ 
shine  at  some  wistful  old  body  behind  the 
diamond  panes  of  her  long  and  narrow  win¬ 
dow.  For  there  she  would  have  been  sitting, 
as  her  successor  is  sitting  yet,  trying  to  be 
thankful  for  her  four  shillings  a  week,  her  fuel, 
her  washing,  and  her  doctoring,  but  ever,  in 
her  snug  corner,  dusting  and  rearranging  the 
bits  of  things,  —  cups  and  spoons,  a  cushion 
or  two,  Scripture  texts,  —  her  scanty  salvage 
from  the  wreck  of  home.  That  the  pathos 
of  the  old  faces  enhances  the  picturesque¬ 
ness  of  it  all,  those  eyes  so  keen  to  read  the 

151 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


book  of  human  life  would  not  have  failed  to 
note. 

Coventry  would  have  had  for  the  seeking 
heart  of  a  poet  other  attractions  than  those  of 
architectural  beauty.  It  was  a  storied  city, 
with  its  treasured  legend  of  Lady  Godiva’s 
ride  —  a  legend  not  then  vulgarised  by 
the  Restoration  addition  of  Peeping  Tom  — 
and  with  its  claim  to  be  the  birthplace  of 
England’s  patron  saint,  the  redoubtable 
dragon  slayer.  A  fourteenth-century  poet 
even  asserts  of  St.  George  and  his  bride 
that  they 

“many  years  of  joy  did  see; 

They  lived  and  died  in  Coventree.” 


It  had  a  dim  memory  of  some  old-time 
slaughter  —  perhaps  of  Danes  —  commemo¬ 
rated  in  its  play  of  Hock  Tuesday.  Coventry 
was,  indeed,  a  “veray  revelour”  in  plays  and 
pageants,  and  if  nothing  else  could  have 
brought  a  long-limbed,  wide-awake  youth  to 
try  what  his  Rosalind  and  Celia  and  Orlando 
found  so  easy,  a  holiday  escapade  in  the 
Forest  of  Arden,  we  may  be  all  but  sure  the 
Corpus  Christi  Mysteries  would  have  given 
the  fiend  the  best  of  the  argument  with  con- 

152 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 

science.  It  is  not  likely,  however,  that  it  had 
to  be  a  runaway  adventure.  That  worship¬ 
ful  alderman,  John  Shakespeare,  was  himself 
of  a  restless  disposition  and  passing  fond  of 
plays.  He  would  have  made  little,  in  the 
years  of  his  prosperity,  of  a  summer-day 
canter  to  Coventry,  with  his  small  son  of 
glowing  countenance  mounted  on  the  same 
stout  nag.  Later  on,  when  debts  and  law¬ 
suits  were  weighing  down  his  spirits,  the 
father  may  have  turned  peevish  and  withheld 
both  his  company  and  his  horse,  but  by  that 
time  young  Will,  grown  tall  and  sturdy,  could 
have  trudged  it,  putting  his  enchanting  tongue 
to  use,  when  his  legs,  like  Touchstone’s,  were 
weary,  in  winning  a  lift  from  some  farmer’s 
wain  for  a  mile  or  so  along  the  road.  But  by 
hook  or  by  crook  he  would  be  there,  laughing 
in  his  doublet-sleeve  at  the  blunders  of  the 
“rude  mechanicals’’  —  of  the  tailors  who 
were  playing  the  Nativity  and  of  the  weavers 
on  whose  pageant  platform  was  set  forth 
the  Presentation  in  the  Temple.  Robin 
Starveling  the  Tailor,  and  his  donkeyship 
Nick  Bottom  the  Weaver,  were  they  not 
natives  of  Coventry?  And  when  the  truant 
—  if  truant  he  was  —  came  footsore  back  to 

153 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


Stratford  and  acted  over  again  in  the  Henley 
Street  garden,  sweet  with  June,  the  “swag¬ 
gering”  of  the  “hempen  home-spuns,”  did 
not  his  gentle  mother  hide  her  smiles  by 
stooping  to  tend  her  roses,  while  the  father’s 
lungs,  despite  himself,  began  to  “crow  like 
Chanticleer”  ? 

Foolish  city,  to  have  kept  no  record  of  those 
visits  of  the  yeoman’s  son,  that  dusty  young¬ 
ster  with  the  dancing  eyes !  When  royal  per¬ 
sonages  came  riding  through  your  gates,  you 
welcomed  them  with  stately  ceremonies  and 
splendid  gifts,  with  gay  street  pageants  and 
gold  cups  full  of  coin.  Your  quills  ran  verse 
as  lavishly  as  your  pipes  ran  wine.  You  had 
ever  a  loyal  welcome  for  poor  Henry  VI ;  and 
for  his  fiery  queen,  Margaret  of  Anjou,  you 
must  needs  present,  in  1456,  St.  Margaret 
slaying  the  dragon.  Four  years  later,  though 
with  secret  rage,  you  were  tendering  an  ova¬ 
tion  to  her  arch  enemy  and  conqueror,  Ed¬ 
ward  IV.  Here  this  merry  monarch  kept  his 
Christmas  in  1465,  and  nine  years  later  came 
again  to  help  you  celebrate  the  feast  of  St. 
George.  For  Prince  Edward,  three  years 
old,  your  Mayor  and  Council,  all  robed  in 
blue  and  green,  turned  out  in  1474,  while 

154 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


players  strutted  before  the  child’s  wondering 
eyes,  while  the  music  of  harp  and  viol  filled 
his  ears,  and  the  “Children  of  Issarell’’  flung 
flowers  before  his  little  feet.  His  murderer, 
Richard  III,  you  received  with  no  less  elabo¬ 
rate  festivities  nine  years  later,  when  he  came 
to  see  your  Corpus  Christi  plays.  But  it  was 
to  you  that  his  supplanter,  Henry  VII,  re¬ 
paired  straight  from  the  victory  of  Bosworth 
Field,  and  you,  never  Yorkist  at  heart,  flew 
your  banners  with  enthusiastic  joy.  His 
heir,  Arthur,  a  winsome  and  delicate  prince, 
you  greeted  with  unconscious  irony,  four 
years  before  his  death,  by  the  blessings  of  the 
Queen  of  Fortune.  You  summoned  the 
“Nine  Orders  of  Angels,”  with  a  throng  of 
“divers  beautiful  damsels,”  to  welcome  Henry 
VIII  and  the  ill-omened  Catherine  of  Aragon 
in  1510.  They  were  sumptuously  entertained 
at  your  glorious  Priory,  for  whose  destruction 
that  graceless  guest,  the  King,  was  presently 
to  seal  command.  But  before  its  day  of 
doom  it  sheltered  one  more  royal  visitor  of 
yours,  the  Princess  Mary,  who  came  in  1525 
to  see  the  Mercers’  Pageant.  In  1505,  the 
year  after  Shakespeare’s  birth,  you  feted  with 
all  splendour  Queen  Elizabeth,  the  last  of  the 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


Tudors,  and  in  161(5,  the  year  of  Shakespeare’s 
death,  you  spread  the  feast  for  King  James, 
the  first  of  the  Stuarts.  But  you  have  for¬ 
gotten  your  chief  guest  of  all,  the  roguish 
urchin  munching  his  bread  and  cheese  in 
the  front  rank  of  the  rabble,  the  heaven- 
crowned  poet  who  was  to  be  more  truly  king¬ 
maker  than  the  great  Warwick  himself. 

Our  first  seeing  of  the  name  of  Warwick  in 
Warwickshire  was  over  a  green-grocer’s  shop 
in  Coventry.  The  green-grocer  was  all  very 
well,  but  the  sewing-machine  factories  and, 
worse  yet,  the  flourishing  business  in  bicycles 
and  motor-cars  jarred  on  our  sixteenth-cen¬ 
tury  dream.  I  am  ashamed  to  confess  how 
speedily  we  accomplished  our  Coventry  sight¬ 
seeing,  and  howr  early,  on  the  day  following  our 
arrival,  we  took  the  road  again.  We  set  out 
in  our  sedate  victoria  with  high  expectations, 
for  we  had  been  told  over  and  over  that  the 
route  from  Coventry  to  Warwick  was  “the 
most  beautiful  drive  in  England.”  For  most 
of  the  distance  we  found  it  a  long,  straight, 
level  avenue,  bordered  by  large  trees.  There 
were  few  outlooks ;  clouds  of  dust  hung  in 
the  air,  and  gasoline  odours  trailed  along  the 
way.  We  counted  it,  as  a  drive,  almost  the 

156 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


dullest  of  our  forty  odd,  but  it  was  good  road- 
ing,  and  the  opinion  of  the  horse  may  have 
been  more  favourable. 

Five  miles  brought  us  to  Kenilworth,  about 
whose  stately  ruins  were  wandering  the  usual 
summer  groups  of  trippers  and  tourists.  Its 
ivies  were  at  their  greenest  and  its  hollies 
glistened  with  an  emerald  sheen,  but  when  I 
had  last  seen  the  castle,  in  a  far-away  October, 
those  hollies  were  yet  more  beautiful  with  gold- 
edged  leaves  and  with  ruby  berries.  Then, 
as  now,  the  lofty  red  walls  seemed  to  me  to 
wear  an  aspect,  if  not  of  austerity,  at  least  of 
courtly  reserve,  as  if,  whoever  might  pry  and 
gossip,  their  secrets  were  still  their  own.  In 
point  of  fact,  the  bewitchments  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott  have  made  it  well-nigh  impossible  for 
any  of  us  to  bear  in  mind  that  in  the  ancient 
fortress  of  Kenilworth  King  John  was  wont 
to  lurk,  spinning  out  his  spider-webs,  that 
Simon  de  Montfort  once  exercised  gay  lord- 
ship  here,  and  here,  in  sterner  times,  held 
Henry  III  and  Prince  Edward  prisoners ; 
that  these  towers  witnessed  the  humiliation 
of  the  woful  Edward  II,  and  that  in  these 
proud  halls  the  mirth- loving  Queen  Bess  had 
been  entertained  by  the  Earl  of  Leicester  on 

157 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


three  several  occasions  prior  to  the  famous 
visit  of  1575.  On  her  first  coming  our  poet 
was  a  prattler  of  two  —  if  only  Mistress 
Shakespeare  had  kept  a  “Baby  Record”!  — 
and  I  am  willing  to  admit  that  the  event  may 
not  have  interested  him.  When  her  second 
royal  progress  excited  Warwickshire,  he  was 
a  four-year-old,  teasing  his  mother  for  fairy 
stories,  and  peeping  into  the  acorn-cups  for 
hidden  elves,  but  hardly  likely  to  have  been 
chosen  to  play  the  part  of  Cupid  while 

“the  imperial  votaress  passed  on, 

In  maiden  meditation,  fancy-free.” 

As  a  boy  of  eight,  however,  a  “gallant  child, 
one  that  makes  old  hearts  fresh,”  he  may  have 
stood  by  the  roadside,  or  been  perched  on 
some  friendly  shoulder  to  add  his  shrill  note 
to  the  loyal  shout  when  the  Queen  rode  by 
amid  her  retinue;  and  three  years  later,  I 
warrant  his  quick  wits  found  a  way  to  see 
something  of  those  glittering  shows,  those 
“princely  pleasures  of  Kenilworth  Castle,” 
which  lasted  nineteen  days  and  were  the  talk 
of  the  county.  How  eagerly  his  winged  im¬ 
agination  would  have  responded  to  the  Lady 
of  the  Lake,  to  Silvanus,  Pomona  and  Ceres, 

158 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


to  the  “savage  man”  and  the  satyrs,  to  the 
“triton  riding  on  a  mermaid  18  foot  long; 
as  also  Arion  on  a  dolphin,  with  rare  music  ”  ! 1 
If  we  did  not  think  so  much  about  Amy  Rob- 
sart  at  Kenilworth  as,  according  to  Scott,  we 
should  have  done,  it  is  because  wTe  were  un¬ 
fortunate  enough  to  know  that  she  perished 
fifteen  years  before  these  high  festivities,  — 
three  years,  indeed,  before  the  Castle  was 
granted  to  Robert  Dudley. 

Stoneleigh  Abbey,  with  its  tempting  por¬ 
traits,  lay  three  miles  to  the  left,  but  we  would 
not  swerve  from  our  straight  road,  which, 
however,  grew  more  exciting  as  we  neared 
Warwick,  for  it  took  us  past  Blacklow  Hill. 
To  this  summit,  six  hundred  years  ago,  the 
fierce  barons  of  Edward  II  dragged  his  French 
favourite,  Piers  Gaveston,  and  struck  off  that 
jaunty  head,  which  went  bounding  down  the 
hill  to  be  picked  up  at  the  bottom  by  a  friar, 
who  piously  bore  it  in  his  hood  to  Oxford. 

We  halted  again  at  Guy’s  Cliff,  constrained 


1  From  the  account  given  by  Sir  William  Dugdale,  the  cele¬ 
brated  antiquary,  who  was  bom  at  Shustoke,  eight  miles  west  of 
Nuneaton,  in  1605,  and  educated  at  Coventry.  “  The  Antiquities 
of  Warwickshire  ”  he  published  in  1656.  He  died  in  1686,  and 
his  tomb,  with  his  own  inscription,  may  be  seen  in  the  chancel  of 
Shustoke  Church. 


159 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


by  its  ancient  tradition  of  Guy,  Earl  of  War¬ 
wick,  he  who 

“did  quell  that  wondrous  cow” 

of  Dunsmore  Heath.  My  own  private  re¬ 
spect  for  horned  beasts  kept  me  from  flip¬ 
pantly  undervaluing  this  exploit.  After  other 
doughty  deeds,  giants,  monsters,  and  Saracens 
falling  like  ninepins  before  him,  Guy  returned 
in  the  odour  of  sanctity  from  the  Holy  Land, 
but  instead  of  going  home  to  Warwick,  where 
his  fair  countess  was  pining,  he  sought  out 
this  cliff  rising  from  the  Avon  and,  in  a  con¬ 
venient  cavity,  established  himself  as  a  hermit. 
Every  day  he  begged  bread  at  the  gate  of  his 
own  castle,  and  his  wife,  not  recognising  her 
dread  lord  in  this  meek  anchorite,  supplied 
his  needs.  Just  before  his  end  he  sent  her  a 
ring,  and  she,  thus  discovering  the  identity  of 
the  beggar,  sped  to  the  cave,  arriving  just  in 
time  to  see  him  die.  Other  hermits  succeeded 
to  his  den,  and  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VI, 
Richard  Beauchamp,  Earl  of  Warwick, 
founded  a  chantry  there.  Henry  VIII  made 
short  work  of  that,  and  the  romantic  rocks 
passed  from  one  owner  to  another,  the  present 
mansion  having  been  built  above  them  in  the 

160 


vv\y»w 


_ 


_ 


FEEDING  THE  PEACOCKS  AT  WARWICK  CASTLE 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


eighteenth  century.  Guy’s  Cliff  was  termed 
by  Leland  “a  place  delightful  to  the  muses,” 
and  we  were  pleased  to  find  it  still  enjoyed 
their  favour.  One  of  those  supernaturally 
dignified  old  servitors  who  hang  about  to 
catch  the  pennies  struck  an  attitude  on  the 
bridge  and,  informing  us  that  he  was  a  poet 
and  had  had  verses  in  print,  recited  with 
touching  earnestness  the  following  effusion  : 

“’Ere  yer  can  sit  and  rest  a  while. 

And  watch  the  wild  ducks  dive  in  play, 

Listen  to  the  cooin’  dove 
And  the  noisy  jay, 

Watch  the  moorhen  as  she  builds  her  rushy  nest 
Swayin’  hupon  the  himmortal  Havon’s  ’eavin’  breast.” 

Warwick,  a  wide-streeted,  stately  old  town, 
with  two  of  its  mediaeval  gates  still  standing, 
was  familiar  to  us  both.  I  had  spent  a  week 
here,  some  years  ago,  and  taken  occasion, 
after  inspecting  the  lions,  to  view  the  horses, 
for  the  autumn  races  chanced  to  be  on.  I 
remember  sitting,  surprised  at  myself,  on  the 
grand  stand,  in  an  atmosphere  of  tobacco 
smoke  and  betting.  The  bookmakers  stood 
below,  conspicuous  in  green  velveteen  coats ; 
some  had  their  names  on  the  open  money¬ 
bags  hanging  from  their  necks;  all  were 
li  '  ]G1 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


shouting  themselves  hoarse.  A  red-nosed 
lady  in  dashing  apparel  sat  on  my  right,  en¬ 
lightening  my  ignorance  with  a  flood  of  jockey 
English,  while  on  my  left  a  plain-faced,  anx¬ 
ious  little  body  would  turn  from  helping  her 
husband  decide  his  bets  to  urge  upon  me  the 
superior  morality  of  this  to  all  other  forms  of 
English  sport.  The  green  below  was  filled 
with  a  bustling  crowd  of  men,  women,  and 
children,  pressing  about  the  booths  and 
Punch-and-Judys  and  the  show-carts,  ad¬ 
venturing  upon  the  swings  and  merry-go- 
rounds,  tossing  balls  at  gay  whirligigs  and 
winning  cocoanuts  in  the  fascinating  game 
of  “Aunt  Sally,”  or  ransacking  the  “silken 
treasury,” 

“Lawns  as  white  as  driven  snow, 

Cyprus  black  as  e’er  was  crow,” 

of  many  a  modern  Autolycus.  The  throng 
was  bright  with  fluttering  pennons,  red  soldier 
coats,  and  the  vivid  finery  of  housemaids  on 
a  holiday.  I  saw  five  out  of  the  seven  races 
sweep  by  and  waxed  enthusiastic  over  “Por¬ 
ridge”  and  “Odd  Mixture,”  but  “good  old 
Maggie  Cooper,”  on  which  my  red-nosed 
neighbour  lost  heavily,  while  the  husband  of 

162 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


my  moral  little  friend  won,  put  me  to  such 
embarrassment  between  them  that  I  be¬ 
thought  myself  of  my  principles  and  slipped 
away. 

Eschewing  such  profane  reminiscences,  I 
recalled  the  Church  of  St.  Mary,  with  its 
haughty  Beauchamp  Chapel  where  ancient 
Earls  of  Warwick  keep  their  marble  state,  to¬ 
gether  with  the  Earl  of  Leicester  and  his 
“noble  impe.”  I  recalled  the  curious  home 
for  old  soldiers,  Leycester’s  Hospital,  so  in¬ 
imitably  described  by  Hawthorne.  Across 
the  years  I  still  could  see  the  antique  quad¬ 
rangle  with  its  emblazoned  scutcheons  and 
ornately  lettered  texts ;  the  vaulted  hall  with 
its  great  carven  beams  ;  the  delightful  kitchen 
with  its  crested  fireplace  of  huge  dimensions, 
its  oaken  settles  and  copper  flagons,  its  Saxon 
chair  that  has  rested  weary  mortality  for  a 
thousand  years,  and  its  silken  fragment  of 
Amy  Robsart’s  needlework.  Most  clearly 
of  all  rose  from  memory  the  figures  of  the  old 
pensioners,  the  “brethren”  garbed  in  long 
blue  gowns  with  silver  badge  on  shoulder, 
stamped,  as  the  whole  building  is  stamped 
over  and  over,  with  the  cognisance  of  The 
Bear  and  the  Ragged  Staff.  I  had  done 

1G3 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


homage  at  Warwick  to  the  memory  of  Landor, 
who  was  born  there  in  a  house  dear  to  his 
childhood  for  its  mulberries  and  cedars,  its 
chestnut  wood,  and  its  fig  tree  at  the  window. 
Partly  for  his  sake  I  had  visited  Rugby,  on 
the  eastern  border  of  Warwickshire,  —  that 
great  public  school  which  became,  under  Dr. 
Arnold’s  mastership,  such  a  power  in  Eng¬ 
lish  life.  Rugby  disapproved  of  my  special 
interest,  for  it  has  had  better  boys  than 
Landor,  so  wild- tempered  a  lad  that  his 
father  was  requested  to  remove  him  when, 
only  fifteen,  he  was  within  five  of  being  head 
of  the  school.  But  the  neighbouring  village 
of  Bilton  entirely  endorsed  my  motives  when 
I  went  the  rounds  of  Bilton  Hall  as  an  act  of 
respectful  sympathy  for  the  eminent  Mr. 
Addison,  who  wedded  the  Dowager  Countess 
of  Warwick  and  here  resided  with  her  for  the 
three  years  that  his  life  endured  under  that 
magnificent  yoke. 

With  so  much  sightseeing  to  our  credit,  we 
decided  to  limit  our  Warwick  experiences  on 
this  occasion  to  luncheon  and  the  castle,  for 
although  we  both  had  “done”  the  splendid 
home  of  the  Earls  of  Warwick  more  than  once, 
even  viewing  it  by  moonlight  and  by  dawn- 

164 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


light  from  the  bridge  across  the  Avon,  it  did 
not  seem  decorous  to  pass  by  without  leaving 
cards  —  not  our  visiting  cards,  but  those  for 
which  one  pays  two  shillings  apiece  in  the 
shop  over  against  the  gate. 

Warwick  Castle,  built  of  the  very  centu¬ 
ries,  cannot  be  expected  to  alter  with  Time’s 
“brief  hours  and  weeks”  —  at  least,  with  so 
few  of  them  as  fall  to  one  poor  mortal’s  lot. 
From  visit  to  visit  I  find  it  as  unchanged  as 
the  multiplication  table.  By  that  same  chill 
avenue,  cut  through  the  solid  rock  and  densely 
shaded,  we  passed  into  the  same  grassy  court 
lorded  over  by  the  same  arrogant  peacocks  — 
who  have,  however,  developed  an  intemperate 
appetite  for  sweet  chocolate  —  and  girt  about 
by  the  same  proud  walls  and  grey,  embattled 
towers.  A  princely  seat  of  splendid  memo¬ 
ries,  one  is  half  ashamed  to  join  the  inquisi¬ 
tive  procession  that  trails  after  a  supercilious 
guide  through  the  series  of  state  apartments 
—  Great  Hall,  Bed  Drawing  Room,  Cedar 
Room,  Gilt  Drawing  Room,  Boudoir,  Armory 
Passage,  and  so  on  to  the  end.  We  looked  at 
the  same  relics,  —  old  Guy’s  dubious  porridge 
pot,  Marie  Antoinette’s  mosaic  table,  Queen 
Anne’s  red  velvet  bed,  the  mace  of  the  King- 

165 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


maker,  Cromwell’s  helmet;  the  same  treas¬ 
ures  of  rare  workmanship  and  fabulous  cost, 
—  a  Venetian  table  inlaid  with  precious  stones, 
shimmering  tapestries,  enamelled  cabinets  and 
clocks;  the  same  notable  succession  of  por¬ 
traits  in  which  the  varying  art  of  Van  Dyke, 
Holbein,  Rembrandt,  Rubens,  Lely,  Kneller 
has  perpetuated  some  of  the  most  significant 
faces  of  history.  How  strangely  they  turn 
their  eyes  on  one  another !  —  Anne  Boleyn ; 
her  Bluebeard,  Henry  VUE,  pictured  here  not 
only  in  his  rank  manhood,  but  as  a  sweet¬ 
lipped  child ;  Loyola  in  priestly  vestments  of 
gold  and  crimson ;  the  Earl  of  Strafford  with 
his  doomful  look ;  Charles  I ;  Henrietta 
Maria;  Rupert  of  the  Rhine;  the  heroic 
Marquis  of  Montrose;  the  literary  Duke  of 
Newcastle ;  the  romantic  Gondomar,  Spanish 
ambassador  to  Elizabeth ;  and  with  them  — 
confuting  my  rash  statement  that  the  castle 
knows  no  change  —  Sargent’s  portrait  of  the 
present  Countess  of  Warwick,  a  democrat  of 
the  democrats,  enfolding  her  little  son.  There 
remained  the  walk  through  the  gardens  to  the 
conservatory,  whose  Warwick  Vase,  said  to 
have  been  found  in  Hadrian’s  Villa,  is,  for  all 
its  grandeur,  less  dear  to  memory  than  the 

166 


.MCOTE,  THE  BIRTHPLACE  OF  SHAKESPEARE  S  MOTHER 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


level  green  branches  of  the  great  cedars  of 
Lebanon.  But  when  it  came  to  peacocks 
and  pussycats  cut  in  yew,  we  deemed  it  time 
to  resume  our  journey. 

Leamington  was  close  at  hand,  with  its 
Royal  Pump  Rooms,  swimming-baths  and 
gardens,  its  villas  and  crescents  and  bath- 
chairs  and  parades,  its  roll  of  illustrious  in¬ 
valids  who  have  drunk  of  its  mineral  waters; 
but  we  would  not  turn  aside  for  Leamington. 
Dr.  Parr’s  church  at  Hatton  could  not  detain 
us,  nor  other  churches  and  mansions  of  re¬ 
nown,  nor  the  footsteps  of  the  worthies  of  the 
Gunpowder  Plot,  nor  Edge  Hill  where  Charles 
I  met  the  Parliamentarians  in  the  first  battle 
of  the  Civil  War,  nor  the  park  of  Red  way 
Grange  in  which  Fielding  wrote  —  and 
laughed  as  he  wrote  —  a  portion  of  “Tom 
Jones,”  nor  the  Red  Horse  cut  in  turf,  nor 
any  other  of  the  many  attractions  of  a 
neighbourhood  so  crowded  with  memorials 
of  stirring  life.  Our  thoughts  were  all  of 
Shakespeare  now;  our  goal  was  Stratford- 
on-Avon. 

Should  we  drive  by  the  right  bank  of  the 
river,  or  the  left  ?  The  choice  lay  between 
Snitterfield  and  Charlecote  Park.  In  Snitter- 

167 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


field,  a  village  four  miles  to  the  north  of  Strat¬ 
ford,  the  poet’s  paternal  grandsire,  Richard 
Shakespeare,  wore  out  a  quiet  yeoman  life,  til¬ 
ling  the  farm  that  he  rented  from  Robert  Ar¬ 
den  of  Wilmcote,  father  of  the  poet’s  mother. 
There  must  have  been  a  strain  of  something 
better  than  audacity  in  the  tenant’s  son  to  win 
him  the  hand  of  Mar}’  Arden.  Henry  Shake¬ 
speare,  the  poet’s  uncle,  died  at  Snitterfield  in 
1.596,  when  the  quick  scion  of  that  slow  blood 
was  in  the  first  fever  of  his  London  successes. 
But  we  chose  the  left-hand  road  and  Charle- 
cote  Park.  For  a  while  the  sunny  Avon, 
silver- flecked  with  such  swans  as  Shakespeare 
and  Ben  Jonson  may  have  smiled  upon 
together,  bore  us  blithe  company;  then  We 
passed  under  the  shadow  of  oaks  with 
“antique  root”  out-peeping,  and  of  more 

“moss’d  trees 

That  have  outliv’d  the  eagle.” 

Before  the  Forest  of  Arden  was  cut  away 
for  the  use  of  the  Droitwich  salt-boilers  and 
other  Vandals,  the  land  was  so  thickly  wooded 
that  tradition  says  a  squirrel  might  have 
skipped  from  bough  to  bough  across  the 
county,  without  once  touching  the  ground. 

168 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


Now  it  is  rich  glebe  and  tillage.  We  skirted 
the  broad  acres  of  Charlecote  Park  and 
viewed  its  “native  burghers,5'  the  deer,  but 
were  loth  to  believe  that  Shakespeare,  even 
in  his  heyday  of  youthful  riot,  would  have 
“let  the  law  go  whistle”  for  the  sake  of  “a 
hot  venison-pasty  to  dinner.”  Yet  it  is  like 
enough  that  there  wras  no  love  lost  between 
the  Shakespeares  and  the  Lucys,  a  family  who 
have  held  the  manor  since  the  twelfth  century 
and,  in  their  Elizabethan  representative,  laid 
themselves  open  to  the  suspicion  of  pompous 
bearing  and  deficient  sense  of  humour.  The 
luces,  or  pikes,  in  their  coat  of  arms,  the  pun- 
loving  tongue  of  a  “most  acute  juvenal” 
could  hardly  have  resisted.  “The  dozen 
white  louses  do  become  an  old  coat  well.” 
Sir  Thomas  Lucy  entertained  Queen  Eliza¬ 
beth  in  1572,  and  if  the  boys  from  Stratford 
Grammar  School  were  not  in  evidence  at  the 
Park  Gates  on  her  arrival,  it  must  have  been 
because  Holofernes  was  drilling  them  for  a 
show  of  the  Nine  Worthies  later  on. 

In  the  fields  about  the  town  the  pea- pickers, 
an  autumn  feature  of  this  neighbourhood, 
were  already  at  work.  They  held  our  eyes 
for  a  little  and,  when  wre  looked  forward  again, 

169 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


there  by  the  river  rose  the  spire  of  Holy 
Trinity,  keeping  its  faithful  watch  and  ward. 
We  clattered  over  the  old  stone  bridge  of  four¬ 
teen  arches  and  there  we  were,  between  the 
staring  rows  of  tourist  shops,  all  dealing  in 
Shakespeare  commercialised.  His  likeness, 
his  name,  his  plays  are  pressed  into  every 
huckster’s  service.  The  windows  fairly 
bristle  with  busts  of  Shakespeare  of  all  sizes 
and  half  a  dozen  colours ;  with  models  of  the 
Henley  Street  house,  ranging  in  price,  with 
varying  magnitude  and  material,  from  pen¬ 
nies  to  pounds;  with  editions  of  his  works, 
from  miniature  copies  to  colossal ;  with  photo¬ 
graphs,  postal-cards,  etchings,  sketches ;  with 
rubbings  of  his  tombstone  inscription;  with 
birthday  books  and  wall  texts,  and  with  all 
sorts  of  articles,  paper-cutters,  match-boxes, 
pencil- trays,  I  dare  say  bootjacks,  stamped 
with  verse  or  phrase  of  his.  This  poet- barter 
is  only  a  fraction  of  Shakespeare’s  endow¬ 
ment  of  his  native  town.  Innkeepers,  porters, 
drivers,  guides,  custodians  are  maintained 
by  him.  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  never  dreamed 
of  such  a  retinue.  Hardly  did  Warwick  the 
King  maker  support  so  great  a  household. 
He  is  not  only  Stratford’s  pride,  but  its  pros- 

170 


CHARLECOTE  PARK  ENTRANCE 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


perity,  and  the  welfare  of  the  descendants  of 
Shakespeare’s  neighbour's  is  not  a  matter  for 
the  stranger  to  deplore.  Nevertheless,  we 
hunted  up  lodgings,  drank  bad  tea  at  one  of 
the  Shakespeare  Tea  Rooms,  and  were  out 
of  those  greedy  streets  as  quickly  as  possible 
on  a  stroll  across  the  old  ridged  fields  to 
Shottery. 

On  the  way  we  met  a  sophisticated  donkey, 
who,  waggling  his  ears,  asked  in  Bottom’s 
name  for  a  gratuity  of  “good  sweet  hay’’; 
and  a  bevy  of  children  scampered  up,  as  we 
neared  Anne  Hathaway’s  cottage,  to  thrust 
upon  us  their  wilted  sprigs  of  lavender  and 
rosemary.  They  were  merry  little  merchants, 
however,  and  giggled  understanding^  when 
we  put  them  off  with  “No,  thank  you,  Wil¬ 
liam,”  “No,  thank  you,  Anne.”  We  arrived 
a  minute  after  six,  and  the  cottage  was  closed 
for  the  night,  though  a  medley  of  indignant 
pilgrims  pounded  at  the  garden  gate  and  took 
unavailing  camera  shots  through  the  twilight. 
But  we  were  content  with  our  dusky  glimpse 
of  the  timber-and-plaster,  vinegrown  walls 
and  low  thatched  roof.  In  former  years  we 
had  trodden  that  box-bordered  path  up  to  an 
open  door  and  had  duly  inspected  fireplace 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


and  settle,  Bible  and  bacon-cupboard,  and  the 
ancient  bedstead.  What  we  cared  for  most 
this  time  was  the  walk  thither,  coming  by  that 
worn  footway  toward  the  setting  sun,  as 
Shakespeare  would  have  come  on  his  eager 
lover’s  visits,  and  the  return  under  a  gossamer 
crescent  which  yet  served  to  suggest  the 
“blessed  moon”  that  tipped 

“with  silver  all  these  fruit-tree  tops” 

for  a  rash  young  Romeo  who  would  better 
have  been  minding  his  book  at  home. 

The  next  morning  we  spent  happily  in  re¬ 
visiting  the  Stratford  shrines.  Even  the 
catch-shilling  shops  bore  witness,  in  their 
garish  way,  to  the  supremacy  of  that  genius 
which  brings  the  ends  of  the  earth  to  this 
Midland  market- town. 

The  supposed  birthplace  is  now  converted, 
after  a  chequered  career,  into  a  Shakespeare 
Museum,  where  are  treasured  more  or  less 
authentic  relics  and  those  first  editions  which 
are  worth  their  weight  in  radium.  Built  of 
the  tough  Arden  oak  and  of  honest  plaster, 
it  was  a  respectable  residence  for  the  times, 
not  unworthy  of  that  versatile  and  vigorous 
citizen  who  traded  in  corn  and  timber  and 

172 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


wool  and  cattle,  rose  from  the  offices  of  ale- 
taster  and  constable  to  be  successively  Cham¬ 
berlain,  Alderman,  and  High  Bailiff,  and 
loomed  before  the  eyes  of  his  little  son  as  the 
greatest  man  in  the  world.  The  house,  whose 
clay  floors  it  may  have  been  the  children’s 
task  to  keep  freshly  strewn  with  rushes,  would 
have  been  furnished  with  oaken  chests  and 
settles,  stools,  trestle-boards,  truckle-beds, 
and  perhaps  a  great  bedstead  with  carved 
posts.  Robert  Arden,  a  man  of  property  and 
position,  had  left,  among  other  domestic 
luxuries,  eleven  “painted  cloths”  —  naive 
representations  of  religious  or  classical  sub¬ 
jects,  with  explanatory  texts  beneath.  His 
daughter  may  have  had  some  of  these  works 
of  art  to  adorn  the  walls  of  her  Stratford  home, 
and,  like  enough,  she  brought  her  husband 
a  silver  salt-cellar  and  a  “fair  garnish  of 
pewter.”  Her  eldest  son,  whose  plays  “  teach 
courtesy  to  kings,”  was  doubtless  carefully 
bred,  —  sent  off  early  to  school  “with  shining 
morning  face,”  and  expected  to  wait  on  his 
parents  at  their  eleven  o’clock  breakfast  be¬ 
fore  taking  his  own,  though  we  need  feel  no 
concern  about  his  going  hungry.  Trust  him 
for  knowing,  as  he  passed  the  trenchers  and 

173 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


filled  the  flagons,  how  to  get  many  a  staying 
nibble  behind  his  father’s  back. 

We  wandered  on  to  the  Grammar  School, 
still  located  in  the  picturesque,  half-timbered 
building  originally  erected,  toward  the  end 
of  the  thirteenth  century,  by  the  Guild  of  the 
Holy  Cross.  Here  once  was  hospital  as  well 
as  school,  and  in  the  long  hall  on  the  ground 
floor,  even  yet  faintly  frescoed  with  the  Cruci¬ 
fixion,  the  Guild  held  its  meetings  and  kept 
its  feasts.  Henry  VIII  made  but  half  a  bite 
of  all  this,  but  the  boy-king,  Edward  VI, 
eleven  years  before  Shakespeare’s  birth,  gave 
the  ancient  edifice  back  to  Stratford.  Then 
the  long  hall  was  used  for  the  deliberations 
of  the  Town  Council,  and  sometimes,  es¬ 
pecially  when  John  Shakespeare  was  in  office, 
for  the  performances  of  strolling  players, — 
three  men  and  a  boy,  perhaps,  travelling  in 
their  costumes,  which,  by  a  little  shifting  and 
furbishing,  might  serve  for  an  old-fashioned 
morality  or  a  new-fangled  chronicle,  or, 
should  the  schoolmaster’s  choice  prevail,  for 
something  newly  Englished  from  the  classics. 
“  Seneca  cannot  be  too  heavy,  nor  Plautus  too 
light.”  The  school,  thenceforth  known  as 
Edward  VI  Grammar  School,  was  perma- 

174 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


nently  established  in  the  top  story,  where  it 
is  still  in  active  operation.  Here  we  saw  the 
Latin  room  in  which  another  William  than 
Mistress  Page’s  hopeful  was  taught  “to  hick 
and  to  hack,”  and  the  Mathematics  room 
where  he  learned  enough  arithmetic  to  “buy 
spices  for  our  sheep-shearing.”  He  was  only 
fourteen  or  fifteen,  it  is  believed,  when  his 
father’s  business  troubles  broke  off  his  school¬ 
ing,  but  not  his  education.  Everywhere  was 
“matter  for  a  hot  brain.”  And  he,  who, 
since  the  days  when  he  “plucked  geese, 
played  truant,  and  whipped  top,  .  .  .  knew 
not  what  ’t  was  to  be  beaten,”  would  have 
borne  up  blithely  against  this  seeming  set¬ 
back.  Nature  had  given  him  “wit  to  flout 
at  Fortune,”  and  these,  too,  were  the  red- 
blooded  years  of  youth,  when  he  was  ever 
ready  to  “dance  after  a  tabor  and  pipe” 
and  pay  his  laughing  court  to  many  a  “queen 
of  curds  and  cream.” 

“But,  O,  the  thorns  we  stand  upon!” 

The  mature  charms  of  Anne  Hathaway 
turned  jest  into  earnest  and  sent  prudence 
down  the  wind.  There  was  a  hasty  wedding, 
nobody  knows  where,  and  John  Shakespeare’s 

175 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


burdens  were  presently  increased  by  the  ad¬ 
vent  of  three  grandchildren.  It  was  ob¬ 
viously  high  time  for  this  ne’er-do-well  young 
John-a-Dreams  —  “yet  he’s  gentle;  never 
schooled,  and  yet  learned;  full  of  noble  de¬ 
vice;  of  all  sorts  enchantingly  beloved”  —  to 
strike  out  into  the  world  and  seek  his  fortune. 

Next  to  the  Guild  Hall  stands  the  Guild 
Chapel,  whose  former  frescoes  of  the  Day  of 
Judgment  must  have  made  deep  impression 
on  the  “eye  of  childhood  that  fears  a  painted 
devil”;  and  over  the  way  from  the  Guild 
Chapel  is  New  Place.  On  this  site  in  the 
time  of  Henry  VII  rose  the  Great  House, 
built  by  a  Stratford  magnate  and  benefactor, 
Sir  Hugh  Clopton,  —  he  who  gave  the  town 
that  ‘‘fair  Bridge  of  Stone  over  Avon.”  In 
1597  Shakespeare,  wdio  could  hardly  have 
been  in  London  a  dozen  years,  had  prospered 
so  well,  albeit  in  the  disreputable  crafts  of 
actor  and  playwright,  that  he  bought  the 
estate,  repaired  the  mansion  then  in  “great 
ruyne  and  decay,”  and  renamed  it  New 
Place.  Yet  although  it  was  his  hour  of 
triumph,  his  heart  w*as  sorrowful,  for  his  only 
son,  his  eleven-year- old  Hamnet,  “jewel  of 
children,”  had  died  the  year  before.  At  least 

176 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


another  decade  passed  before  Shakespeare 
finally  withdrew  from  London  and  settled 
down  at  New  Place  with  the  wife  eight  years 
his  senior,  a  plain  country  woman  of  Puritan 
proclivities.  In  his  twenty  years  of  intense 
creative  life, 


“The  inward  service  of  the  mind  and  soul” 


must  have  widened  beyond  any  possible  com¬ 
prehension  of  hers,  nor  can  his  two  daughters, 
unlettered  and  out  of  his  world  as  they  were, 
have  had  much  inkling  of  the  career  and 
achievements  of  “so  rare  a  wonder’d  father.’’ 
His  parents  were  dead.  Their  ashes  may 
now  mingle  with  little  Hamnet’s  in  some  for¬ 
gotten  plot  of  the  elm-shadowTed  churchyard. 
Of  his  two  daughters,  Susanna,  the  elder,  had 
married  a  Stratford  physician,  and  there  was 
a  grandchild,  little  Elizabeth  Hall,  to  brighten 
the  gardens  of  New  Place.  As  I  lingered 
there,  —  for  the  gardens  remain,  though  the 
house  is  gone,  —  my  eyes  rested  on  a  three- 
year-old  lass  in  a  fluttering  white  frock.  —  no 
wraith,  though  she  might  have  been,  —  danc¬ 
ing  among  the  flowers  with  such  uncertain 
steps  and  tossing  such  tiny  hands  in  air  that 
12  177 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


the  birds  did  not  trouble  themselves  to  take 
to  their  wings,  but  hopped  on  before  her  like 
playfellows. 

The  deepest  of  the  Shakespeare  mysteries 
is,  to  my  mind,  the  silence  of  those  closing 
years.  Were  nerves  and  brain  temporarily 
exhausted  from  the  strain  of  that  long  period 
of  continuous  production  ?  Or  had  he  come 
home  from  London  sore  at  heart,  “toss’d 
from  wrong  to  injury,”  smarting  from  “the 
whips  and  scorns  of  time”  and  abjuring  the 
“rough  magic”  of  his  art?  Or  was  he,  in 
“the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought,”  dream¬ 
ing  on  some  high,  consummate  poem  in  com¬ 
parison  with  which  the  poor  stage- smirched 
plays  seemed  to  him  not  worth  the  gathering 
up  ?  Or  might  he,  taking  a  leaf  out  of  Ben 
Jonson’s  book,  have  been  in  fact  arranging 
and  rewriting  his  works,  purging  his  gold 
from  the  dross  of  various  collaborators  ?  Or 
was  some  new,  inmost  revelation  of  life  dawn¬ 
ing  upon  him,  holding  him  dumb  with  awe  ? 
We  can  only  ask,  not  answer;  but  certainly 
they  err  who  claim  that  the  divinest  genius  of 
English  letters  had  wrought  merely  for  house 
and  land,  and  found  his  chief  reward  in  writ¬ 
ing  “Gentleman”  after  his  name. 

178 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


“Sure,  he  that  made  us  with  such  large  discourse 
Looking  before  and  after,  gave  us  not 
That  capability  and  godlike  reason 
To  rust  in  us  unus’d.” 

Shakespeare  had  been  gentle  before  he  was 
a  gentleman,  and  had  held  ever  —  let  his 
own  words  bear  witness  — 

“Virtue  and  cunning  were  endowments  greater 
Than  nobleness  and  riches.” 

The  gods  had  given  him  but  fifty- two  years 
on  earth  —  had  they  granted  more,  he  might 
have  probed  and  uttered  too  many  of  their 
secrets  —  when  for  the  last  time  he  was  “  with 
holy  bell  .  .  .  knoll’d  to  church.”  It  was 
an  April  day  when  the  neighbours  bore  a 
hand- bier  —  as  I  saw  a  hand- bier  borne  a  few 
years  since  across  the  fields  from  Shottery  — 
the  little  way  from  New  Place  down  Chapel 
Lane  and  along  the  Waterside  —  or  perhaps 
by  Church  Street  —  and  up  the  avenue,  be¬ 
neath  its  blossoming  limes,  to  Holy  Trinity. 

Here,  where  the  thousands  and  the  millions 
come  up  to  do  reverence  to  this 

“Dear  Son  of  Memory,  great  Heir  of  Fame,” 

I  passed  a  peaceful  hour,  ruffled  only  —  if 
the  truth  must  out  —  by  the  unjustifiable 

179 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


wrath  which  ever  rises  in  me  on  reading  Mrs. 
Susanna  Hall’s  epitaph.  I  can  forgive  the 
“tombemaker”  who  wrought  the  bust,  I  can 
endure  the  stained-glass  windows,  I  can  over¬ 
look  the  alabaster  effigy  of  John  Combe  in 
Shakespeare’s  chancel,  but  I  resent  the  Puri¬ 
tan  self-righteousness  of  the  lines,  — 

“Witty  above  her  sexe,  but  that’s  not  all. 

Wise  to  salvation  was  good  Mistris  Hall, 

Something  of  Shakespeare  was  in  that  but  this 
Wholly  of  him  with  whom  she’s  now  in  blisse.” 

Yes,  I  know  that  Shakespeare  made  her  his 
heiress,  that  she  was  clever  and  charitable, 
that  in  July  of  1643  she  entertained  Queen 
Henrietta  Maria  at  New  Place,  but  I  do  not 
care  at  all  for  the  confusion  of  her  bones  when 
“a  person  named  Watts”  intruded  into  her 
grave  fifty-eight  years  after  she  had  taken 
possession,  and  I  believe  she  used  her  father’s 
manuscripts  for  wrapping  up  her  saffron  pies. 

We  spent  the  earlier  half  of  the  afternoon 
in  a  drive  among  some  of  the  outlying  villages 
of  Stratford,  —  first  to  Wilmcote,  the  birth¬ 
place  of  Shakespeare’s  mother.  We  dis¬ 
missed  a  fleeting  thought  of  “Marian  Hacket, 
the  fat  ale-wife  of  Wincot,”  and  sought  only 

180 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


for  “Mary  Arden’s  Cottage.”  Gabled  and 
dormer- windowed,  of  stout  oak  timbers  and 
a  light  brown  plaster,  it  stands  pleasantly 
within  its  rustic  greenery.  Old  stone  barns 
and  leaning  sheds  help  to  give  it  an  aspect 
of  homely  kindliness.  Robert  Arden’s  will, 
dated  1556,  is  the  will  of  a  good  Catholic,  be¬ 
queathing  his  soul  to  God  “  and  to  our  blessed 
Lady,  Saint  Mary,  and  to  all  the  holy  com¬ 
pany  of  heaven.”  lie  directed  that  his  body 
should  be  buried  in  the  churchyard  of  St. 
John  the  Baptist  in  Aston- Cantlow.  So  we 
drove  on,  a  little  further  to  the  northwest, 
and  found  an  Early  English  church  with  a 
pinnacled  west  tower.  The  air  was  sweet 
with  the  roses  and  clematis  that  clambered 
up  the  walls.  It  is  here,  in  all  likelihood, 
that  John  Shakespeare  and  Mary  Arden  were 
married. 

We  still  pressed  on,  splashing  through  a 
ford  and  traversing  a  surviving  bit  of  the 
Forest  of  Arden,  to  one  village  more,  Wootton- 
Wawen,  with  a  wonderful  old  church  whose 
every  stone  could  tell  a  story.  Somervile  the 
poet,  who  loved  Warwickshire  so  well,  is 
buried  in  the  chantry  chapel,  and  the  white- 
haired  rector  told  us  proudly  that  Shakespeare 

181 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


had  often  come  to  service  there.  Indeed, 
Wootton-Wawen  may  have  meant  more  to 
the  great  dramatist  and  done  more  to  shape 
his  destinies  than  we  shall  ever  know,  though 
Shakespeare  scholarship  is  beginning  to  turn 
its  searchlight  on  John  Somervile  of  Edstone 
Hall,  whose  wife  was  nearly  related  to  Mary 
Arden.  Papist,  as  the  whole  Arden  connec¬ 
tion  seems  to  have  been,  John  Somervile’s 
brain  may  have  given  way  under  the  political 
and  religious  troubles  of  those  changeful 
Tudor  times.  At  all  events,  he  suddenly  set 
out  for  London,  declaring  freely  along  the 
road  that  he  was  going  to  kill  the  Queen.  Ar¬ 
rest,  imprisonment,  trial  for  high  treason,  con¬ 
viction,  and  a  mysterious  death  in  his  Newgate 
cell  followed  in  terrible  sequence.  Nor  did 
the  tragedy  stop  with  him,  but  his  wife,  sister, 
and  priest  were  arrested  on  charge  of  com¬ 
plicity,  and  not  these  only,  but  that  quiet  and 
honourable  gentleman,  Edward  Arden  of 
Park  Hall  in  Wilmcote,  with  his  wife  and 
brother.  Francis  Arden  and  the  ladies  were 
in  course  of  time  released,  but  Edward  Arden, 
who  had  previously  incurred  the  enmity  of 
Leicester  by  refusing  to  wear  his  livery,  —  a 
flattery  to  which  many  of  the  Warwickshire 

182 


THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND 


gentlemen  eagerly  stooped,  —  suffered,  on 
December  20,  1583,  the  brutal  penalty  of  the 
law,  —  hanged  and  drawn  and  quartered,  put 
to  death  with  torture,  for  no  other  crime,  in 
all  probability,  than  that  of  having  an  excita¬ 
ble  son-in-law  and  a  sturdy  English  sense  of 
self-respect.  A  sad  and  bitter  Yule  it  must 
have  been  for  his  kinsfolk  in  Wilmcote 
and  in  Stratford.  There  was  danger  in  the 
air,  too;  a  hot  word  might  give  Sir  Thomas 
Lucy  or  some  other  zealous  Protestant  his 
chance ;  and  there  may  well  have  been  graver 
reasons  than  a  poaching  frolic  why  young 
Will  Shakespeare  should  have  disappeared 
from  the  county. 


183 


THE  COTSWOLDS 


1ATE  in  the  afternoon  we  started  out  from 
|  Stratford  for  a  peep  at  the  Cotswolds, 
swelling  downs  that  belong  in  the  main 
to  Oxfordshire,  although,  as  our  drive  soon 
revealed  to  us,  Warwickshire,  Gloucester¬ 
shire,  Northamptonshire,  and  even  Worces¬ 
tershire  all  come  in  for  a  share  of  these  pastoral 
uplands.  It  is  in  the  Cotswolds,  not  far  from 
the  estuary  of  the  Severn,  that  the  Thames 
rises  and  flows  modestly  through  Oxfordshire, 
which  lies  wholly  within  its  upper  valley,  to 
become  the  commerce- laden  river  that  takes 
majestic  course  through  the  heart  of  London. 

We  were  still  in  the  Shakespeare  country, 
for  his  restless  feet  must  often  have  roved 
these  breezy  wilds,  famous  since  ancient  days 
for  hunts  and  races.  “I  am  glad  to  see  you, 
good  Master  Slender,”  says  genial  Master 
Page.  And  young  Master  Slender,  with  his 
customary  tact,  replies:  “How  does  your 
fallow  greyhound,  sir?  I  heard  say  he  was 

184 


THE  COTSWOLDS 


outrun  on  Cotsol.”  Whereupon  Master  Page 
retorts  a  little  stiffly :  “It  could  not  be  judged, 
sir,”  and  Slender  chuckles:  “You’ll  not  con¬ 
fess;  you’ll  not  confess.”  Why  could  it  not 
be  judged?  For  one  of  the  delights  of  the 
Cotswold  hunt  —  so  hunters  say  —  is  the 
clear  view  on  this  open  tableland  of  the  strain¬ 
ing  pack.  Shakespeare  knew  well  the  “gal¬ 
lant  chiding”  of  the  hounds,  —  how,  when 
they  “spend  their  mouths,” 

“Echo  replies 

As  if  another  chase  were  in  the  skies.” 

Here  he  may  have  seen  his  death- pressed 
hare,  “poor  Wat,”  try  to  baffle  his  pursuers 
and  confuse  the  scent  by  running  among  the 
sheep  and  deer  and  along  the  banks  “where 
earth-delving  conies  keep.” 

Still  about  our  route  clung,  like  a  silver 
mist,  Shakespeare  traditions.  In  the  now 
perished  church  of  Luddington,  two  miles 
south  of  Stratford,  the  poet,  it  is  said,  married 
Anne  Hathaway ;  but  the  same  bridal  is 
claimed  for  the  venerable  church  of  Temple 
Grafton,  about  a  mile  distant,  and  again  for 
the  neighbouring  church  of  Billesley.  Long 
Marston,  “Dancing  Marston,”  believes  its 

185 


THE  COTSWOLDS 


sporting-ground  was  in  the  mind  of  the  pren¬ 
tice  playwright,  a  little  homesick  yet  in  Lon¬ 
don,  when  he  wrote: 

“The  Nine-Men’s  Morris  is  filled  up  with  mud; 

And  the  quaint  mazes  in  the  wanton  green. 

For  lack  of  tread,  are  undistinguishable.’’ 

At  Lower  Quinton  stands  an  old  manor- 
house  of  whose  library  —  such  is  the  whisper 
that  haunts  its  folios  —  Will  Shakespeare 
was  made  free.  A  happy  picture  that  —  of 
an  eager  lad  swinging  across  the  fields  and 
leaping  stiles  to  enter  into  his  paradise  of 
books. 

We  were  well  into  Gloucestershire  before 
this,  that  tongue  of  Gloucestershire  which 
runs  up  almost  to  Stratford-on-Avon,  and 
were  driving  on  in  the  soft  twilight,  now  past 
the  old-time  Common  Fields  with  their  fur¬ 
longs  divided  by  long  balks;  now  over  roll¬ 
ing  reaches,  crossed  by  low  stone  walls,  of 
sheep-walk  and  water-meadow  and  wheat- 
land,  with  here  and  there  a  fir  plantation  or 
a  hazel  covert;  now  through  a  strange  grey 
hamlet  built  of  the  native  limestone.  Our 
road  was  gradually  rising,  and  just  before 
nightfall  we  came  into  Chipping  Campden, 

186 


THE  COTSWOLDS 


most  beautiful  of  the  old  Cotswold  towns.  We 
had  not  dreamed  that  England  held  its  like, 
—  one  long,  wide,  stately  street,  bordered  by 
silent  fronts  of  great  stone  houses,  with  here 
and  there  the  green  of  mantling  ivy,  but 
mainly  with  only  the  rich  and  changeful 
colouring  of  the  stone  itself,  grey  in  shadow, 
golden  in  the  sun.  Campden  was  for  cen¬ 
turies  a  famous  centre  of  the  wool  trade ;  the 
Cotswolds  served  it  as  a  broad  grazing-ground 
whose  flocks  furnished  wool  for  the  skilful 
Flemish  weavers ;  its  fourteenth  century 
Woolstaplers’  Hall  still  stands ;  its  open 
market-house,  built  in  1624  midway  of  the 
mile-long  street,  is  one  of  its  finest  features; 
its  best-remembered  name  is  that  of  William 
Grevel,  described  on  his  monumental  brass 
(1401)  as  “Flower  of  the  Wool-merchants  of 
all  England.”  He  bequeathed  a  hundred 
marks  toward  the  building  of  the  magnifi¬ 
cent  church,  which  stood  complete,  as  we  see 
it  now,  in  the  early  fifteenth  century.  Its 
glorious  tower,  tall  and  light,  yet  not  too 
slender,  battlemented,  turreted,  noble  in  all 
its  proportions,  is  a  Cotswold  landmark.  As 
we  were  feasting  our  eyes,  after  an  evening 
stroll,  upon  the  symmetries  of  that  grand 

187 


THE  COTSWOLDS 


church,  wonderfully  impressive  as  it  rose  in 
the  faint  moonlight  above  a  group  of  strange, 
pagoda-roofed  buildings,  its  chimes  rang  out 
a  series  of  sweet  old  tunes,  all  the  more 
poignantly  appealing  in  that  the  voices  of 
those  ancient  bells  were  thin  and  tremulous, 
and  now  and  then  a  note  was  missed. 

The  fascinations  of  Campden  held  us  the 
summer  day  long.  We  must  needs  explore 
the  church  interior,  which  has  suffered  at  the 
hands  of  the  restorer ;  yet  its  chancel  brasses, 
wrought  with  figures  of  plump  woolstaplers, 
their  decorous  and  comely  dames,  and  their 
kneeling  children,  reward  a  close  survey.  I 
especially  rejoiced  in  one  complacent  burgher, 
attended  by  three  wimpled  wives,  and  a  long 
row  of  sons  and  daughters  all  of  the  same  size. 
There  is  a  curious  chapel,  too,  where  we  came 
upon  the  second  Viscount  Campden,  in  marble 
shroud  and  coronet,  ceremoniously  handing, 
with  a  most  cynical  and  unholy  expression, 
his  lady  from  the  sepulchre.  There  was  a 
ruined  guildhall  to  see,  and  some  antique 
almshouses  of  distinguished  beauty.  As  we 
looked,  an  old  man  came  feebly  forth  and 
bowed  his  white  head  on  the  low  enclosing 
wall  in  an  attitude  of  grief  or  prayer.  We 

188 


TOWER  OF  CHIPPING  CAMPDEN  CHURCH 


THE  COTSWOLDS 


learned  later  that  one  of  the  inmates  had  died 
that  very  hour.  We  went  over  the  works  of 
the  new  Guild  of  Handicraft,  an  attempt  to 
realise,  here  in  the  freshness  of  the  wolds,  the 
ideals  of  Ruskin  and  Morris.  We  cast  wist¬ 
ful  eyes  up  at  Dover’s  Hill,  on  whose  level 
summit  used  to  be  held  at  Whitsuntide  the 
merry  Cotswold  Games.  “Heigh  for  Cots- 
wold!”  But  it  was  the  hottest  day  of  the 
summer,  and  we  contented  ourselves  with 
the  phrase. 

Other  famous  Cotswold  towns  are  “Stow- 
on- the- Wold,  where  the  wind  blows  cold”; 
Northleach  in  the  middle  of  the  downs,  deso¬ 
late  now,  but  once  full  of  the  activities  of  those 
wool-merchants  commemorated  by  quaint 
brasses  in  the  splendid  church, —  brasses 
which  show  them  snugly  at  rest  in  their  furred 
gowns,  with  feet  comfortably  planted  on 
stuffed  woolpack  or  the  fleecy  back  of  a  sheep, 
or,  more  precariously,  on  a  pair  of  shears; 
Burford,  whose  High  Street  and  church  are 
as  noteworthy  as  Campden's  own;  Winch- 
combe,  once  a  residence  of  the  Mercian  kings 
and  a  famous  shrine  of  pilgrimage;  Ciren¬ 
cester,  the  “Capital  of  the  Cotswolds,”  built 
above  a  ruined  Roman  city  and  possessing  a 

189 


THE  COTSWOLDS 


church  of  surpassing  richness.  How  we 
longed  for  months  of  free-footed  wandering 
over  these  exhilarating  uplands  with  their 
grey  settlements  like  chronicles  writ  in  stone ! 
But  Father  Time  was  shaking  his  hour-glass 
just  behind  us,  in  his  marplot  fashion,  and 
since  it  had  to  be  a  choice,  we  took  the  even¬ 
ing  train  to  Chipping  Norton. 

I  regret  to  say  that  Chipping  Norton,  the 
highest  town  in  Oxfordshire,  showed  little 
appreciation  of  the  compliment.  It  was  not 
easy  to  find  lodging  and  wellnigh  impossible 
to  get  carriage  conveyance  back  to  Campden 
the  next  day.  It  is  a  thriving  town,  ranking 
third  in  the  county,  and  turns  out  a  goodly 
supply  of  leather  gloves  and  the  “Chipping 
Norton  tweeds.”  The  factory  folk  were, 
many  of  them,  having  their  holiday  just  then ; 
their  friends  were  coming  for  the  week-end 
and  had  one  and  all,  it  would  seem,  set  their 
hearts  on  being  entertained  by  a  Saturday 
drive;  the  only  victoria  for  hire  in  the  place 
was  going  to  Oxford  to  bring  an  invalid  lady 
home;  altogether  the  hostlers  washed  their 
hands  —  merely  in  metaphor  —  of  the  two 
gad-abouts  who  thought  Chipping  Norton 
not  good  enough  to  spend  Sunday  in.  Before 

190 


THE  COTSWOLDS 


we  slept,  however,  we  had  succeeded  in  en¬ 
gaging,  at  different  points,  a  high  wagonette, 
a  gaunt  horse,  and  a  bashful  boy,  and  the  com¬ 
bination  stood  ready  for  us  at  nine  o’clock 
in  the  morning. 

Meanwhile  we  had  seen  the  chief  sights  of 
this  venerable  town,  whose  name  is  equiva¬ 
lent  to  Market  Norton.  Its  one  wide  street, 
a  handsome,  tree-shadowed  thoroughfare  with 
the  Town  Hall  set  like  an  island  in  its  midst, 
runs  up  the  side  and  along  the  brow  of  a  steep 
plateau.  A  narrow  way  plunges  down  from 
this  central  avenue  and  passes  a  seven-gabled 
row  of  beautiful  almshouses,  dated  1640. 
Indeed,  no  buildings  in  these  Midland  coun¬ 
ties  have  more  architectural  charm  than  their 
quaint  shelters  for  indigent  old  age.  The 
abrupt  lane  leads  to  a  large  grey  church, 
square- towered  and  perpendicular,  like  the 
church  of  Chipping  Campden,  but  with  a  few 
Early  English  traces.  Its  peculiar  feature  is 
the  glass  clerestory,  —  great  square  windows 
divided  from  one  another  by  the  pillars  of  the 
nave.  The  sexton  opened  the  doors  for  us 
so  early  that  we  had  leisure  to  linger  a  little 
before  the  old  altar-stone  with  its  five  crosses, 
before  St.  Mary’s  banner  bordered  with  her 

191 


THE  COTSWOLDS 


own  blue,  before  the  warrior  pillowed  on  his 
helmet  and  praying  his  last  prayer  beside  his 
lady,  whose  clasped  hands,  even  in  the  time¬ 
worn  alabaster,  have  a  dimpled,  chubby, 
coaxing  look ;  and  before  those  characteristic 
merchant  brasses,  the  men  in  tunics  with 
close  sleeves  and  girdles,  one  of  them  stand¬ 
ing  with  each  foot  on  a  woolpack,  the  women 
in  amazing  head-dresses,  “horned”  and 
“  pedimented,”  and  all  the  work  so  carefully 
and  elaborately  wrought  that  the  Cotswold 
brasses  are  authorities  for  the  costume  of  the 
period. 

One  of  the  main  objects  of  this  expedition, 
however,  was  the  drive  back  over  the  hills 
with  their  far  views  of  down  and  wold  to 
whose  vegetation  the  limestone  imparts  a 
peculiar  tint  of  blue.  We  deviated  from  the 
Campden  road  to  see  the  Rollright  Stones, 
a  hoary  army  with  their  leader  well  in  ad¬ 
vance.  He,  the  King  Stone,  is  across  the 
Warwickshire  line,  but,  curiously  enough,  a 
little  below  the  summit  which  looks  out  over 
the  Warwickshire  plain.  This  monolith, 
eight  or  nine  feet  high,  fantastically  suggests 
a  huge  body  drawn  back  as  if  to  brace  itself 
against  the  fling  of  some  tremendous  curse. 

192 


THE  ROLLRIGHT  STONES 


THE  COTSWOLDS 


The  tale  tells  how,  in  those  good  old  times 
before  names  and  dates  had  to  be  remembered, 
a  petty  chief,  who  longed  to  extend  his  sway 
over  all  Britain,  had  come  thus  far  on  his 
northward  march.  But  here,  when  he  was 
almost  at  the  crest  of  the  hill,  when  seven 
strides  more  would  have  brought  him  where 
he  could  see  the  Warwickshire  village  of 
Long  Compton  on  the  other  side,  out  popped 
an  old  witch,  as  wicked  as  a  thorn- bush,  with 
the  cry: 

“If  Long  Compton  thou  canst  see. 

King  of  England  thou  shalt  be.” 


On  bounded  the  chief  —  what  were  seven 
steps  to  reach  a  throne!  —  but  the  wooded 
summit,  still  shutting  off  his  view,  rose  faster 
than  he,  and  again  the  eldritch  screech  was 
heard : 

“Rise  up,  stick!  stand  still,  stone! 

King  of  England  thou  shalt  be  none.” 


And  there  he  stands  to  this  day,  even  as  the 
spell  froze  him,  while  the  sorceress,  disguised 
as  an  elder  tree,  keeps  watch  over  her  victim. 
The  fairies  steal  out  from  a  hole  in  the  bank 
on  moonlight  nights  and  weave  their  dances 
13  193 


THE  COTSWOLDS 


round  him.  No  matter  how  securely  the 
children  of  the  neighbourhood  fit  a  flat  stone 
over  the  hole  at  bedtime,  every  morning  finds 
it  thrust  aside.  We  would  not  for  the  world 
have  taken  liberties  with  that  elfin  portal,  but 
if  we  had  been  sure  which  of  the  several  elder 
trees  was  the  witch,  we  might  have  cut  at  her 
with  our  penknives  and  seen, —  it  is  averred 
by  many, —  as  her  sap  began  to  flow  and  her 
strength  to  fail,  the  contorted  stone  strain  and 
struggle  to  free  itself  from  the  charm.  And 
had  we  seen  that,  I  am  afraid  we  should  forth-1 
with  have  desisted  from  our  hacking  and  taken 
to  our  heels.  As  it  was,  the  place  had  an 
uncanny  feel,  and  we  went  back  into  Oxford¬ 
shire  some  eighty  yards  to  review  the  main 
body  of  the  army, 

“a  dismal  cirque 

Of  Druid  stones  upon  a  forlorn  moor.” 

These  mysterious  monuments,  which  in  the 
day  of  the  Venerable  Bede  were  no  less  re¬ 
markable  than  Stonehenge,  have  been  ravaged 
by  time,  but  some  sixty  of  them  —  their  magic 
baffles  an  exact  count  —  remain.  Grey  Druid 
semblances,  heathen  to  the  core,  owl-faced, 
monkey-faced,  they  stand  in  a  great,  ragged 

194 


THE  COTSWOLDS 


circle,  enclosing  a  clump  of  firs.  Deeply 
sunken  in  the  ground,  they  are  of  uneven 
height;  some  barely  peep  above  the  surface; 
the  tallest  rises  more  than  seven  feet;  some 
lie  prone;  some  bend  sideways;  all  have  an 
aspect  of  extreme  antiquity,  a  perforated, 
worm-eaten  look  the  reverse  of  prepossessing. 
But  our  visit  was  ill-timed.  If  we  had  had 
the  hardihood  to  climb  up  to  that  wind-swept 
waste  at  midnight,  we  should  have  seen  those 
crouching  goblins  spring  erect,  join  hands  and 
gambol  around  in  an  ungainly  ring,  trampling 
down  the  thistles  and  shocking  every  church 
spire  in  sight.  At  midnight  of  All  Saints  they 
make  a  mad  rush  down  the  hillside  for  their 
annual  drink  of  water  at  a  spring  below. 

The  antiquaries  who  hold  that  these  strange 
stones  were  erected  not  as  a  Druid  temple,  nor 
as  memorials  of  victory,  nor  for  the  election 
and  inauguration  of  primitive  kings,  but  for 
sepulchral  purposes,  rest  their  case  largely  on 
the  Whispering  Knights.  This  third  group 
is  made  up  of  five  stones  which  apparently 
once  formed  a  cromlech  and  may  have  been 
originally  covered  with  a  mound.  They  are 
some  quarter  of  a  mile  behind  the  circle,  —  a 
bad  quarter  of  a  mile  I  found  it  as  I  struggled 

195 


THE  COTSWOLDS 


across  the  rugged  moor  knee- deep  in  rank 
clover  and  other  ■withering  weeds.  Just  be¬ 
fore  me  would  fly  up  partridges  with  a  startled 
whirr,  hovering  so  near  in  their  bewilderment 
that  I  could  almost  have  knocked  a  few  of 
them  down  with  my  parasol,  if  that  had  ap¬ 
pealed  to  me  as  a  pleasant  and  friendly  thing 
to  do.  For  this  was  a  “cover,”  destined  to 
give  a  few  of  Blake’s  and  Shelley’s  country¬ 
men  some  autumn  hours  of  brutalising  sport. 

‘‘Each  outcry  of  the  hunted  hare 
A  fibre  from  the  brain  doth  tear. 

A  skylark  wounded  in  the  wing; 

A  cherubim  doth  cease  to  sing.” 


The  Five  Knights  lean  close  together,  yet 
without  touching,  enchanted  to  stone  in  the 
very  act  of  whispering  treason  against  their 
ambitious  chief.  They  whisper  still  under 
the  elder  tree,  and  often  will  a  lass  labouring 
in  the  barley  fields  slip  away  from  her  com¬ 
panions  at  dusk  to  beg  the  Five  Knights  to 
whisper  her  an  answer  to  the  question  of  her 
heart.  I  walked  back,  having  hit  on  a  path; 
in  company  with  a  rustic  harvester,  whose 
conversation  was  confined  to  telling  me  five 
times  over,  in  the  stubborn,  half-scared  tone 

196 


THE  COTSWOLDS 


of  superstition,  that  while  the  other  elders  are 
laden  with  white  berries,  this  elder  always 
bears  red ;  and  the  collie  wagged  his  tail, 
and  the  donkey  wagged  his  ears,  in  solemn 
confirmation. 

The  wagonette  gathered  us  in  again,  and 
soon  we  passed,  not  far  from  the  fine  Eliza¬ 
bethan  mansion  known  as  Chastleton  House, 
the  Four- Shire  Stone,  a  column  marking  the 
meeting-point  of  Oxfordshire,  Warwickshire, 
Gloucestershire,  and  Worcestershire.  Our 
route  lay  for  a  while  in  Gloucestershire.  As 
our  shy  young  driver  refreshed  our  skeleton 
steed,  which  had  proved  a  good  roadster,  with 
gruel,  that  favourite  beverage  of  English 
horses,  at  More  ton-  in- the-  Marsh,  another 
little  grey  stone  town  with  open  market-hall, 
we  noted  a  building  marked  P.  S.  A.  and 
learned  it  was  a  workingmen’s  club,  or  some¬ 
thing  of  that  nature,  and  that  the  cabalistic 
initials  stood  for  Pleasant  Sunday  After¬ 
noon.  We  changed  horses  at  Campden,  did 
our  duty  by  the  array  of  cold  joints,  and 
drove  up  to  Fish  Inn,  with  its  far  outlook, 
and  thence  down  into  the  fertile  Vale  of 
Evesham.  We  had  not  been  ready  to  say 
with  Richard  II, 


THE  COTSWOLDS 


“I  am  a  stranger  here  in  Glostershire; 

These  high  wild  hills  and  rough  uneven  ways 
Draw  out  our  miles,  and  make  them  wearisome,” 

but  we  found  a  new  pleasure  in  the  smiling 
welcome  of  gardened  Worcestershire.  The 
charming  village  of  Broadway,  beloved  of 
artists,  detained  us  for  a  little,  and  at  Evesham, 
even  more  attractive  with  its  beautiful  bell- 
tower,  its  Norman  gateway  and  cloister  arch 
—  pathetic  relics  of  its  ruined  abbey  —  and 
with  its  obelisk- marked  battlefield  where  fell 
Simon  de  Montfort,  “the  most  peerless  man 
of  his  time  for  valour,  personage,  and  wis¬ 
dom,”  we  brought  our  driving-tour  in  the 
Midlands  to  a  close. 


108 


OXFORD 


SHAKESPEARE’S  frequent  horseback 
journeys  from  London  to  Stratford,  and 
from  Stratford  to  London,  must  have 
made  him  familiar  with  the  county  of  Oxford¬ 
shire.  He  would  have  seen  its  northern  up¬ 
lands  sprinkled  over  with  white -fleeced  sheep 
of  the  pure  old  breed,  sheep  so  large  that  their 
mutton  is  too  fat  for  modern  palates :  a 
smaller  sheep,  yielding  inferior  wool,  is  fast 
supplanting  the  original  Cots  wold.  He  would 
not  have  met  upon  the  downs  those  once  so 
frequent  passengers,  the  Flemish  merchants 
with  their  trains  of  sumpter  mules  and  pack- 
horses,  bound  for  Chipping  Campden  or  some 
other  market  where  wool  might  be  “cheap¬ 
ened  ”  in  the  way  of  bargaining,  for  by  Shake¬ 
speare’s  day  the  cloth- making  industry  in 
the  valley  of  the  Stroud  Water,  Gloucester¬ 
shire,  had  attained  to  such  a  flourishing  con¬ 
dition  that  the  export  of  raw  material  was 
forbidden. 


100 


OXFORD 


It  is  not  likely  that  his  usual  route  would 
have  given  him  the  chance  to  refresh  himself 
with  Banbury  cakes  at  Banbury  and,  profane 
player  that  he  was,  bring  down  upon  himself 
a  Puritan  preachment  from  Ben  Jonson’s 
Zeal  -  of  -  the  -  land  -  Busy ;  but  Shakespeare’s 
way  would  almost  certainly  have  lain  through 
Woodstock.  This  ancient  town  has  royal 
traditions  reaching  back  to  King  Alfred  and 
Etheldred  the  Redeless,  but  these  are  ob¬ 
scured  for  the  modern  tourist  by  the  heavy 
magnificence  of  Blenheim  Palace,  the  Duke 
of  Marlborough’s  reward  for  his  “famous 
victory.”  The  legend  of  Fair  Rosamund  — 
how  Henry  II  hid  her  here  embowered  in  a 
labyrinth,  and  how  the  murderous  Queen 
Eleanor  tracked  her  through  the  maze  by  the 
clue  of  a  silken  thread  —  Shakespeare,  like 
Drayton,  could  have  enjoyed  without  moles¬ 
tation  from  the  critical  historian,  who  now 
insists  that  it  was  Eleanor  whom  the  king 
shut  up  to  keep  her  from  interfering  with  his 
loves.  Poor  Rosamund !  Her  romance  is 
not  suffered  to  rest  in  peace  here  any  more 
than  was  her  fair  body  in  the  church  of  God 
stow  nunnery.  There  she  had  been  buried  in 
the  centre  of  the  choir,  and  the  nuns  honoured 

800 


OXFORD 


her  grave  with  such  profusion  of  broidered 
hangings  and  burning  tapers  as  to  scandalise 
St.  Hugh,  Bishop  of  Lincoln,  who,  on  visiting 
the  nunnery  in  1191,  gave  orders  that  she  be 
disinterred  and  buried  “  out  of  the  church 
with  other  common  people  to  the  end  that 
religion  be  not  vilified.”  But  after  some 
years  the  tender  nuns  slipped  those  rejected 
bones  into  a  “perfumed  leather  bag”  and 
brought  them  back  within  the  holy  pale.  The 
dramatist,  who  seems  to  have  done  well  nigh 
his  earliest  chronicle- play  writing  in  an  epi¬ 
sode  of  the  anonymous  “Edward  III,”  may 
have  remembered,  as  he  rode  into  the  old 
town,  that  the  Black  Prince  was  born  at 
Woodstock.  But  whether  or  no  he  gave  a 
thought  to  Edward  Ill’s  war-wasted  heir,  he 
could  hardly  have  failed  to  muse  upon  that 
monarch’s  poet,  “  most  sacred  liappie  spirit,” 
Geoffrey  Chaucer,  whose  son  Thomas — if  this 
Thomas  Chaucer  were  indeed  the  poet’s  son 
— resided  at  Woodstock  in  the  early  part  of  the 
fifteenth  century.  And  still  fresh  would  have 
been  the  memory  of  Elizabeth’s  imprisonment 
in  the  gate-house  during  a  part  of  her  sis¬ 
ter  Mary’s  reign.  It  was  here,  according  to 
Ilolinshed,  on  whom  the  burden  of  pronouns 

201 


OXFORD 


rested  lightly,  that  the  captive  princess  “hear¬ 
ing  upon  a  time  out  of  hir  garden  at  Wood- 
stock  a  certaine  milkemaid  singing  pleasantlie 
wished  herselfe  to  be  a  milkemaid  as  she  was, 
saieing  that  hir  case  was  better,  and  life  more 
merier  than  was  liirs  in  that  state  as  she  was.” 

Charles  I  and  the  Roundheads  had  not  then 
set  their  battle-marks  all  over  Oxfordshire, 
and  Henley,  now  famed  for  its  July  regatta 
as  far  as  water  flows,  was  still  content  with 
the  very  moderate  speed  of  its  malt-barges; 
but  Oxford  —  I  would  give  half  my  library  to 
know  with  what  feelings  Shakespeare  used  to 
behold  its  sublime  group  of  spires  and  towers 
against  the  sunset  sky.  This  “upstart  crow,” 
often  made  to  wince  under  the  scorn  of  those 
who,  like  Robert  Greene,  —  the  red-headed 
reprobate !  —  could  write  themselves  “Master 
of  Arts  of  both  Universities,”  what  manner  of 
look  did  he  turn  upon  that  august  town 

“gorgeous  with  high-built  colleges, 

And  scholars  seemly  in  their  grave  attire, 

Learned  in  searching  principles  of  art?” 

Here  in  the  midst  of  the  valley  of  the 
Thames,  Oxford  had  already  kept  for  cen¬ 
turies  a  queenly  state,  chief  city  of  the  shire, 

204 


OXFORD 


with  a  university  that  ranked  as  one  of  the 
“two  eyes  of  England.”  The  university, 
then  as  now,  was  made  up  of  a  number  of 
colleges  which  owned,  by  bequest  and  by  pur¬ 
chase,  a  considerable  portion  of  the  county, 
though  they  by  no  means  limited  their  estates 
to  Oxfordshire.  Almost  all  those  “sacred 
nurseries  of  blooming  youth”  which  delight 
us  to-day  were  known  to  the  dust-stained 
traveller  who  put  up,  perhaps  twice  a  year, 
perhaps  oftener,  at  the  Crown  Inn,  kept  by 
John  Davenant,  vintner.  Apart  from  the 
painfully  modern  Keble,  a  memorial  to  the 
author  of  “The  Christian  Year,”  and  the  still 
more  recent  roof- trees  for  dissent,  Congre¬ 
gational  Mansfield  and  Unitarian  Manchester, 
what  college  of  modern  Oxford  would  be 
utterly  strange  to  Shakespeare  ?  Even  in 
Worcester,  an  eighteenth-century  erection  on 
the  site  of  the  ruined  Benedictine  foundation 
of  Gloucester  College,  search  soon  reveals 
vestiges  of  the  old  monastic  dwellings.  Not 
a  few  of  the  very  edifices  that  Shakespeare 
saw  still  stand  in  their  Gothic  beauty,  but  in 
case  of  others,  as  University,  which  disputes 
with  Merton  the  claim  of  seniority,  boasting 
no  less  a  founder  than  Alfred  the  Great,  new 

203 


OXFORD 


buildings  have  overgrown  the  old.  Some 
have  changed  their  names,  as  Broadgates,  to 
which  was  given,  eight  years  after  Shake¬ 
speare’s  death,  a  name  that  even  in  death 
he  would  hardly  have  forgotten,  —  Pem¬ 
broke,  in  honour  of  William,  Earl  of  Pem¬ 
broke,  then  Chancellor  of  the  University. 
Already  venerable,  as  the  poet  looked  upon 
them,  were  the  thirteenth-century  founda¬ 
tions  of  Merton,  with  its  stately  tower,  its 
library  of  chained  folios,  its  memories  of  Duns 
Seotus ;  and  Balliol,  another  claimant  for  the 
dignities  of  the  first-born,  tracing  its  origin  to 
Sir  John  de  Balliol,  father  of  the  Scottish  king, 
remembering  among  its  early  Fellows  and 
Masters  John  Wyclif  the  Reformer;  and 
Hart  Hall,  where  Tyndale  was  a  student,  the 
Hertford  College  of  to-day;  and  St.  Edmund 
Hall,  which  has  been  entirely  rebuilt.  An¬ 
other  thirteenth- century  foundation,  St.  Alban 
Hall,  has  been  incorporated  with  Merton. 

The  fourteenth-century  colleges,  too,  would 
have  worn  a  weathered  look  by  1G00,  — 
Exeter  and  Oriel  and  Queen’s  and  New.  The 
buildings  of  Exeter  have  been  restored  over 
and  over,  but  the  mediaeval  still  haunts  them, 
as  it  haunted  Exeter’s  latest  poet,  William 

204 


OXFORD 


Morris,  who  loved  Oxfordshire  so  well  that 
he  finally  made  his  home  at  Kelmscott  on  the 
Upper  Thames.  Oriel,  which,  as  Shake¬ 
speare  would  have  known,  was  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh’s  college,  underwent  an  extensive 
rebuilding  in  the  reign  of  Charles  I.  To 
Oriel  once  belonged  St.  Mary  Hall,  where  Sir 
Thomas  More  studied,  —  a  wag  of  a  student 
he  must  have  been !  —  and  now,  after  an  in¬ 
dependence  of  five  hundred  years,  it  is  part 
of  Oriel  again.  Queen’s,  named  in  honour 
of  Philippa,  the  consort  of  Edward  III,  has 
so  completely  changed  its  outer  fashion  that 
George  II’s  Queen  Caroline  is  perched  upon 
its  cupola,  but  by  some  secret  of  individuality 
it  is  still  the  same  old  college  of  the  Black 
Prince  and  of  Henry  V,  —  the  college  where 
every  evening  a  trumpet  summons  the  men 
to  dine  in  hall,  and  every  Christmas  the  Boar’s 
Head,  garnished  with  the  traditional  green¬ 
ery,  is  borne  in  to  the  singing  of  an  old-time 
carol,  and  every  New  Year’s  Day  the  bursar 
distributes  thread  and  needles  among  its 
unappreciative  masculine  community  with 
the  succinct  advice:  “Take  this  and  be 
thrifty.” 

New  College,  unlike  these  three,  has  hardly 
205 


OXFORD 


altered  its  original  fabric.  If  Shakespeare 
smiled  over  the  name  borne  by  a  structure 
already  mossed  and  lichened  by  two  centu¬ 
ries,  we  have  more  than  twice  his  reason  for 
smiling;  indeed,  we  have  one  excuse  that  he 
had  not,  for  we  can  think  of  Sydney  Smith  as 
a  New  College  man.  Old  it  is  and  old  it 
looks.  The  very  lanes  that  lead  to  it,  grey 
and  twisted  passages  of  stone,  conduct  us 
back  to  the  mediaeval  world.  The  Virgin 
Mary,  the  Archangel  Gabriel,  and,  no  whit 
abashed  in  such  high  company,  Bishop  Wyke- 
ham,  the  Founder,  watch  us  from  their  storm- 
worn  niches  as  we  pass  under  the  gateway 
into  the  majestic  quadrangle.  Here  time- 
blackened  walls  hold  the  gaze  enthralled  with 
their  ancientry  cf  battlements  and  buttresses, 
deep-mullioned  windows  and  pinnacle-set 
towers.  Beyond  lie  the  gardens,  still  bounded 
on  two  sides  by  the  massive  masonry,  embra¬ 
sured,  bastioned,  parapeted,  of  the  old  City 
Wall, — gardens  where  it  should  always  be 
October,  drifty,  yellowy  dreamy,  quiet,  with 
■wan  poplars  and  aspens  and  chestnuts  whis¬ 
pering  and  sighing  together,  till  some  gro¬ 
tesque  face  sculptured  on  the  wall  peers  out 
derisively  through  ivy  mat  or  crimson  creeper, 
*  206 


OXFORD 


and  the  red- berried  hollies,  old  and  gay 
with  many  Christmases,  rustle  in  reassuring 
laughter.  Meanwhile  the  rooks  flap  heavily 
among  the  mighty  beeches,  whose  tremen¬ 
dous  trunks  are  all  misshapen  with  the  gnarls 
and  knobs  of  age. 

Of  the  fifteenth- century  foundations,  All 
Souls,  “The  College  of  All  Souls  of  the  Faith¬ 
ful  Departed,”  and  especially  of  those  who 
fell  in  the  French  wars,  retains  much  of  its 
original  architecture;  in  the  kitchen  of  Lin¬ 
coln,  if  not  in  the  chapel,  Shakespeare  would 
still  find  himself  at  home ;  and  for  him,  as  for 
all  the  generations  since,  the  lofty  tower  of 
Magdalen  rose  as  Oxford's  crown  of  beauty. 
Magdalen  College  is  ancient.  The  very 
speaking  of  the  name  (Maudlin)  tells  us  that, 
all  the  more  unmistakably  because  Magdalen 
Bridge  and  Magdalen  Street  carry  the  modern 
pronunciation.  But  Magdalen  College,  with 
its  springing,  soaring  grace,  its  surprises  of 
delight,  its  haunting,  soul-possessing  loveli¬ 
ness,  has  all  the  winning  charm  of  youth.  Its 
hundred  acres  of  lawn  and  garden,  wood  and 
park,  where  deer  browse  peacefully  beneath 
the  shade  of  giant  elms  and  where  Addison’s 
beloved  Water  Walks  beside  the  Cherwell  are 

207 


OXFORD 


golden  with  the  primroses  and  daffodils  of 
March  and  blue  with  the  violets  and  peri¬ 
winkles  of  later  spring,  are  even  more  tempt¬ 
ing  to  the  book-fagged  wanderer  than  Christ 
Church  Meadow  and  “Mesopotamia.”  It  is 
hard  to  tell  when  Magdalen  is  most  beautiful. 
It  has  made  the  circle  of  the  year  its  own.  On 
May  Day  dawn,  all  Oxford,  drowsy  but  de¬ 
termined,  gathers  in  the  broad  street  below 
to  see  —  it  depends  upon  the  wind  whether 
or  no  one  may  hear  —  the  choir  chant  their 
immemorial  hymn  from  the  summit  of  the 
tower.  When  the  ending  of  the  rite  is  made 
known  to  the  multitude  by  the  flinging  over 
of  the  caps,  —  black  mortar-boards  that  sail 
slowly  down  the  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet 
like  a  flock  of  pensive  rooks,  —  then  away  it 
streams  over  Magdalen  Bridge  toward  Iffley 
to  gather  Arnold’s  white  and  purple  fritilla- 
ries,  and,  after  a  long  and  loving  look  at  Iffley’s 
Norman  Church,  troops  home  along  the 
towing-path  beside  the  Isis.  Shakespeare 
may  himself  have  heard,  if  he  chanced  to 
be  passing  through  on  St.  John  Baptist’s 
Day,  the  University  sermon  preached  from 
the  curiously  canopied  stone  pulpit  well  up 
on  the  wall  in  a  corner  of  one  of  the  quad- 

208 


OXFORD 


rangles,  while  the  turf  was  sweet  with  strewn 
rushes  and  all  the  buildings  glistening  with 
fresh  green  boughs.  But  even  in  midwinter 
Magdalen  is  beautiful,  when  along  Addison’s 
Walk  the  fog  is  frosted  like  most  delicate 
enamel  on  every  leaf  and  twig,  and  this 
white  world  of  rime  takes  on  strange  flushes 
from  the  red  sun  peering  through  the  haze. 

Of  the  six  Tudor  foundations,  Trinity 
occupies  the  site  of  Durham  College,  a  thir¬ 
teenth-century  Benedictine  institution  sup¬ 
pressed  by  Henry  VIII;  St.  John’s,  closely 
allied  to  the  memory  of  Archbishop  Laud,  is 
the  survival  of  St.  Bernard  College,  which 
itself  grew  out  of  a  Cistercian  monastery; 
Brasenose,  associated  for  earlier  memory  with 
Foxe  of  the  “Book  of  Martyrs”  and  for  later 
with  Walter  Pater,  supplanted  two  mediaeval 
halls ;  and  Jesus  College,  the  first  to  be 
founded  after  the  Reformation,  endowed  by 
a  Welshman  for  the  increase  of  Welsh  learn¬ 
ing,  received  from  Elizabeth  a  site  once  held 
by  academic  buildings  of  the  elder  faith. 
Only  Corpus  Christi,  where  Cardinal  Pole  and 
Bishop  Hooker  studied  to  such  different  ends, 
although  it  is,  as  its  name  indicates,  of  Cath¬ 
olic  origin,  rose  on  fresh  soil  and  broke  with 
14  209 


OXFORD 


the  past,  with  the  mediaeval  educational  tradi¬ 
tion,  by  making  regular  provision  for  the  sys¬ 
tematic  study  of  Latin  and  Greek. 

The  great  Tudor  foundation  was  Christ 
Church,  built  on  the  sacred  ground  where,  in 
the  eighth  century,  St.  Frideswide,  a  princess 
with  a  pronounced  'Vocation  for  the  religious 
life,  had  erected  a  nunnery  of  which  she  was 
first  abbess.  The  nunnery  became,  after  her 
death,  a  house  of  canons,  known  as  St.  Fri- 
deswide’s  Priory.  Cardinal  Wolsey  brought 
about  the  surrender  of  this  priory  to  the  king, 
and  its  prompt  transfer  to  himself,  some  fif¬ 
teen  years  before  the  general  Dissolution. 
His  ambition,  not  all  unrealised,  was  to  found 
as  his  memorial  a  splendid  seat  of  the  New 
Learning  at  Oxford  to  be  called  Cardinal’s 
College.  He  had  gone  so  far  as  to  erect  a 
magnificent  hall,  with  fan-vaulted  entrance 
and  carved  oak  ceiling  of  surpassing  beauty, 
a  kitchen  ample  enough  to  feed  the  Titans, 
“The  Faire  Gate”  and,  in  outline,  the  Great 
Quadrangle,  for  whose  enlargement  he  pulled 
down  three  bays  of  the  Priory  church,  when 
his  fall  cut  short  his  princely  projects.  His 
shameless  master  attempted  to  take  over  to 
himself  the  credit  of  Wolsey ’s  labours,  sub- 

210 


THE  TOWER,  MAGDALEN  COLLEGE 


OXFORD 


stituting  the  name  of  King  Henry  VIII’s 
College,  but  on  creating,  a  few  years  later,  the 
bishopric  of  Oxford,  he  blended  the  cathe¬ 
dral  and  college  foundations  as  the  Church 
and  House  of  Christ.  The  cathedral  fabric 
is  still  in  the  main  that  of  the  old  Priory 
church.  Of  the  several  quadrangles,  Can¬ 
terbury  Quad  keeps  a  memory  of  Canterbury 
College,  which,  with  the  other  Benedictine 
colleges,  Gloucester  and  Durham,  went  down 
in  the  storm.  Christ’s  Church  —  “The 
House,”  as  its  members  call  it  —  is  the  aris¬ 
tocratic  college  of  Oxford.  Noblemen  and 
even  princes  may  be  among  those  white- 
surpliced  figures  that  flit  about  the  dim  quads 
after  Sunday  evensong.  Ruskin’s  father,  a 
wealthy  wine-merchant  of  refined  tastes  and 
broad  intelligence,  hesitated  to  enter  his  son 
as  a  gentleman  commoner  at  Christ’s  lest  the 
act  should  savour  of  presumption.  Yet  no 
name  has  conferred  more  lustre  on  The 
House  than  that  of  him  who  became  the 
Slade  Professor  of  Fine  Arts,  waking  all  Ox¬ 
ford  to  nobler  life  and  resigning,  at  last,  be¬ 
cause  he  could  not  bear  that  the  university 
should  sanction  vivisection. 

Wadham  College,  though  the  lovely  garden 
*11 


OXFORD 


with  its  hoary  walls  starred  by  jasmine  and  its 
patriarchal  cedars  casting  majestic  shadows 
—  a  garden  that  rivals  for  charm  even  those 
of  St.  John’s  and  Worcester  and  Exeter  — 
has  such  a  venerable  air,  is  the  youngest  of  all 
these.  Its  first  stone  was  laid,  on  a  site  for¬ 
merly  occupied  by  a  priory  of  Augustinian 
Friars,  only  six  years  before  Shakespeare’s 
death.  In  his  later  journeys  he  would  not 
have  failed  to  note  the  progress  of  its 
erection. 

But  if  Shakespeare  saw,  as  he  rode  through 
Oxford,  almost  all  the  colleges  that  may  now 
be  seen,  he  also  saw  much  that  has  crumbled 
away  into  an  irretrievable  past.  Not  only 
were  the  various  colleges,  halls,  priories,  and 
friaries  of  the  monastic  orders  still  in  visible 
ruin,  but  the  great  abbeys  of  Osney  and  of 
Rewley,  the  former  one  of  the  largest  and 
richest  in  all  England,  still  made  the  appeal 
of  a  beautiful  desolation.  No  wonder  that 
Shakespeare  compared  the  naked  branches 
of  autumn,  that  wintry  end  of  the  season 

“When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold,” 

to 

“bare,  ruined  choirs.” 


OXFORD 


If,  as  seems  probable,  the  Arden  sympa¬ 
thies  lingered  long  with  the  Mother  Church, 
if  Shakespeare  did  not  forget,  even  in  those 
closing  years  when  his  homeward  trips 
brought  him  to  a  Puritan  household  and  an 
ever  more  Puritan  town,  the  bitter  fate  of  his 
kinsmen  of  Wilmcote  and  Wootton-Wawen, 
he  must  have  been  keenly  alive  to  these  ravages 
of  the  Reformation.  Yet  he  had  been  some 
twenty  years  at  the  vortex  of  Elizabethan  life, 
in  the  very  seethe  of  London;  he  had  wit¬ 
nessed  many  a  wrong  and  many  a  tragedy; 
he  was  versed  to  weariness  of  heart  in  the 
“hostile  strokes”  that  befall  humanity,  in  all 
the  varied 

“throes 

That  nature’s  fragile  vessel  doth  sustain 
In  life’s  uncertain  voyage”; 

and  he  knew,  no  man  better,  that  Right  is  not 
of  one  party,  nor  Truth  of  a  single  creed.  He 
must  have  mused,  as  he  took  the  air  in  Oxford 
streets  after  Mistress  Davenant  had  served  his 
supper,  on  the  three  great  Protestant  Martyrs 
of  whose  suffering  some  of  the  elder  folk  with 
whom  he  chatted  had  been  eyewitnesses. 
The  commemorative  cross  that  may  now  be 
seen  in  front  of  Balliol,  near  the  church  of  St. 

21S 


OXFORD 


Mary  Magdalen  whose  tower  was  a  familiar 
sight  to  Shakespeare’s  eyes,  displays  in  richly 
fretted  niches  the  statues  of  “Thomas  Cran- 
mer,  Nicolas  Ridley,  Hugh  Latimer,  Prelates 
of  the  Church  of  England,  who  near  this  spot 
yielded  their  bodies  to  be  burned.”  Most  of 
all,  his  thought  would  have  dwelt  on  Cranmer, 
that  pathetic  figure  whose  life  was  such  a 
mingled  yarn  of  good  and  evil.  He  had  won 
the  favour  of  Henry  VIII  by  approving  the 
divorce  of  Queen  Catherine.  He  had  beheld 
—  and  in  some  cases  furthered  —  the  down¬ 
falls  of  Sir  Thomas  More,  of  Anne  Boleyn,  of 
Wolsey,  of  Cromwell,  of  Catherine  Howard, 
of  Seymour,  and  of  Somerset.  He  had  stood 
godfather  to  Elizabeth  and  to  Edward.  He 
had  watched  over  the  death-bed  of  the  tyrant ; 
he  had  crowned  that  tyrant’s  frail  young  son 
as  Edward  VI.  When  by  his  adherence  to 
the  cause  of  Lady  Jane  Grey  he  had  in¬ 
curred  sentence  of  treason,  he  was  pardoned 
by  Queen  Mary.  Yet  this  pardon  only 
amounted  to  a  transfer  from  the  Tower  of 
London  to  the  Bocardo  in  Oxford,  that  prison- 
house  over  the  North  Gate  from  whose  stone 
cells  used  to  come  down  the  hoarse  cry  of 
cold  and  hunger:  “Pity  the  Bocardo  birds.” 

214 


OXFORD 


There  were  those  still  living  in  Oxford  who 
could  have  told  the  dramatist,  as  he  gazed  up 
through  the  moonlight  (for  who  does  not?)  to 
the  pinnacled  spire  of  St.  Mary-the-Virgin, 
all  the  detail  of  those  April  days,  only  ten 
years  before  his  birth,  when  Cranmer,  with 
Ridley  and  Latimer,  was  brought  into  the 
church  and  bidden,  before  a  hostile  assem¬ 
blage  of  divines,  to  justify  the  heresies  of  the 
new  prayer-book.  On  the  Tuesday  Cranmer 
pleaded  from  eight  till  two ;  Ridley  was  heard 
on  the  Wednesday,  and  on  the  Thursday  the 
aged  Latimer,  a  quaint  champion  as  he  stood 
there  “with  a  kerchief  and  two  or  three  caps 
on  his  head,  his  spectacles  hanging  by  a  string 
at  his  breast,  and  a  staff  in  his  hand.”  On 
the  Friday  all  three  were  condemned.  After 
a  year  and  a  half  of  continued  confinement, 
Archbishop  Cranmer,  whose  irresolution  was 
such  that,  from  first  to  last,  he  wrote  seven 
recantations,  was  made  to  look  out  from  his 
prison  window  upon  the  tormented  death  of 
his  friends.  Then  it  was  that  the  stanch  old 
Latimer,  bowed  with  the  weight  of  fourscore 
years,  but  viewing  the  fagots  undismayed, 
spake  the  never-forgotten  words:  “Be  of 
good  comfort,  Master  Ridley.  We  shall  this 

215 


OXFORD 


day  light  such  a  candle,  by  God’s  grace,  in 
England,  as  I  trust  shall  never  be  put  out.” 
Cranmer’s  own  end  came  six  months  later, 
on  March  21,  1556.  He  was  first  brought  to 
St.  Mary’s  that  he  might  publicly  abjure  his 
heresies.  But  at  that  desperate  pass,  no 
longer  tempted  by  the  hope  of  life,  —  for  hope 
there  was  none,  —  his  manhood  returned  to 
him  with  atoning  dignity  and  force.  Prison- 
wasted,  in  ragged  gown,  a  man  of  sixty-seven 
years,  he  clearly  avowed  his  Protestant  faith, 
declaring  that  he  had  penned  his  successive 
recantations  in  fear  of  the  pains  of  death,  and 
adding:  “Forasmuch  as  my  hand  offended 
in  writing  contrary  to  my  heart,  my  hand 
therefore  shall  be  first  punished ;  for  if  I  may 
come  to  the  fire,  it  shall  be  the  first  burnt.” 
And  having  so  “flung  down  the  burden  of  his 
shame,”  he  put  aside  those  who  would  still 
have  argued  with  him  and  fairly  ran  to  the 
stake, 

“Outstretching  flameward  his  upbraided  hand.” 

The  university  church,  this  beautiful  St. 
Mary’s,  has  other  memories.  From  its  pulpit 
Wyclif  proclaimed  such  daring  doctrines  that 
Lincoln  College  was  founded  to  refute  them, 

216 


OXFORD 


Lincoln,  which  came  to  number  among 
its  Fellows  John  Wesley  and  to  shelter  those 
first  Methodist  meetings,  the  sessions  of  his 
“Holy  Club.”  In  St.  Mary’s  choir  rests  the 
poor  bruised  body  of  Amy  Robsart.  The 
spiral-columned  porch  was  erected  by  Laud’s 
chaplain,  and  its  statue  of  the  Virgin  and 
Child  so  scandalised  the  Puritans  that  they 
pressed  it  into  service  for  one  of  their  articles 
of  impeachment  directed  against  the  doomed 
archbishop. 

What  could  the  thronging  student  life  of 
Oxford  have  meant  to  the  author  of  “Ham¬ 
let”?  Of  his  careless  young  teachers  in 
stage-craft  —  so  soon  his  out-distanced  rivals 
—  Lyly  and  Peele  and  Lodge  would  have 
been  at  home  beside  the  Isis  and  the  Cher  well, 
as  Greene  and  Nash  and  Marlowe  by  the 
Cam ;  but  Shakespeare  —  did  those  flutter¬ 
ing  gowns,  those  gaudy-hooded  processions, 
stir  in  him  more  than  a  stranger's  curiosity  ? 
The  stern  day  of  that  all-learned  Master  of 
Balliol,  Dr.  Jowett,  who  stiffened  examina¬ 
tions  to  a  point  that  would  have  dismayed 
Shakespeare’s  contemporaries,  save,  perhaps, 
the  redoubtable  Gabriel  Harvey,  was  still  in 
the  far  future ;  the  magnificent  New  Schools, 
217 


OXFORD 


with  their  dreaded  viva  voces,  had  not  yet 
come;  the  Rhodes  Scholarships  were  beyond 
the  dream- reach  of  even  a  Raleigh  or  a 
Spenser;  but  academic  tests  and  academic 
pomps  there  were.  The  Old  Schools  Quad¬ 
rangle,  not  quite  complete,  had  been  building 
in  a  leisurely  way  since  1439  and  was  in 
regular  use,  though  the  Divinity  School, 
whose  arched,  groined,  boss-studded  roof  is 
one  of  the  beauties  of  Oxford,  had  nearly  suf- 
fered  wreck,  in  the  brief  reign  of  Edward  VI, 
at  the  hands  of  that  class  of  theological  re¬ 
formers  who  have  a  peculiar  aversion  to 
stained  glass.  The  exercises  of  the  Encaenia 
Shakespeare  would  have  heard,  if  he  ever 
chanced  to  hear  them,  in  St.  Mary’s,  but  half 
a  century  after  his  death  they  were  trans¬ 
ferred  to  the  new  Sheldonian  Theatre.  In 
St.  Mary’s,  which  was  not  only  “Learning’s 
receptacle  ”  but  also  “  Religion’s  parke,”  these 
exercises,  the  Acts,  naturally  took  the  form 
of  disputations  concerning  “wingy  mysteries 
in  divinity.”  When  they  passed  out  from  the 
church  to  an  unconsecrated  edifice,  political 
and  social  themes,  still  treated  in  scholastic 
Latin,  were  added,  but  even  so  the  entertain¬ 
ment  was  of  the  dullest.  Professional  fun- 

218 


OXFORD 


makers,  successors  of  the  mediaeval  minstrels, 
had  to  be  called  in  to  enliven  the  occasion  with 
a  peppering  of  jests,  but  these  became  so 
scurrilous  that  the  use  of  hired  buffoons 
was  forbidden  by  Convocation.  Then  the 
resourceful  undergraduates  magnanimously 
came  forward,  volunteering  to  take  this  deli¬ 
cate  duty  upon  themselves,  and  manfully  have 
they  discharged  it  to  this  day.  These  young 
Oxonians  have  developed  the  normal  under¬ 
graduate  gift  for  sauce  into  an  art  that  even 
knows  the  laws  of  proportion  and  restraint. 
The  limits  allowed  them  are  of  the  broadest, 
but  only  twice  in  living  memory  has  their 
mischief  gone  so  far  as  to  break  up  the 
assemblage. 

The  threefold  business  of  the  annual  En¬ 
caenia  is  to  confer  honorary  degrees,  to  listen 
to  the  prize  compositions,  and  to  hear  an  ad¬ 
dress  delivered  by  the  Public  Orator  in  com¬ 
memoration  of  Founders  and  Benefactors, 
with  comment  on  current  events.  On  the 
one  occasion  when  I  was  privileged  to  be 
present,  the  hour  preceding  the  entrance  of 
the  academic  procession  was  the  liveliest  of  all. 
The  lower  galleries  were  reserved  for  guests, 
but  the  upper,  the  Undergraduates’  Gallery, 

219 


OXFORD 


was  packed  with  students  in  cap  and  gown, 
who  promptly  began  to  badger  individuals 
chosen  at  whim  from  the  throng  of  men 
standing  on  the  floor. 

“I  don’t  like  your  bouquet,  sir.  It’s  too 
big  for  your  buttonhole.  If  the  lady  would  n’t 
mind  — ” 

The  offending  roses  disappeared  in  a  gen¬ 
eral  acclaim  of  “Thank  you,  sir,”  and  the 
cherubs  aloft  pounced  on  another  victim. 
The  unfortunates  so  thrust  into  universal 
notice  usually  complied  with  the  request, 
whatever  it  might  be,  as  quickly  as  possible, 
eager  to  escape  into  obscurity,  but  a  certain 
square- jawed  Saxon  wearing  a  red  tie  put  up 
a  stubborn  resistance  until  all  the  topmost 
gallery  was  shouting  at  him,  and  laughing 
faces  were  turned  upon  him  from  every 
quarter  of  the  house. 

“Take  off  that  red  tie,  sir.” 

“Indeed,  sir,  you  don’t  look  pretty  in  it.” 

“It  doesn’t  go  well  with  your  blushes.” 

“JFi//  you  take  off  that  tie,  sir?” 

“It’s  not  to  our  cultured  taste,  sir.” 

“It’s  the  only  one  he’s  got.” 

“Dear  sir,  please  take  it  off.” 

“It  gives  me  the  eye-ache,  sir.” 

22Q 


OXFORD 


“Have  you  paid  for  it  yet?” 

“Was  there  anybody  in  the  shop  when  you 
bought  it?” 

“Are  you  wearing  it  for  an  advertisement  ?  ” 

“Hush-h!  She  gave  it  to  him.” 

“Oh,  SHE  put  it  on  for  him.'* 

“You’re  quite  right,  sir.  Don't  take  it 
off.” 

“We  can  sympathize  with  young  romance, 
sir.” 

“Be  careful  of  it,  sir.” 

“Wear  it  till  your  dying  day.” 

“It’s  the  colour  of  her  hair.” 

But  by  this  time  the  poor  fellow’s  face  was 
flaming,  and  he  jerked  off  the  tie  and  flung 
it  to  the  floor  amid  thunders  of  derisive 
applause. 

Then  the  Undergraduate  Gallery  turned 
its  attention  to  the  organist,  who  in  all  the 
hubbub  was  brilliantly  going  through  the 
numbers  of  his  program. 

“Will  you  kindly  tell  us  what  you’re  play¬ 
ing,  Mr.  Lloyd?” 

“We  don’t  care  for  classical  music  our¬ 
selves.” 

“‘Auld  Lang  Syne,’  if  you  please.” 

The  organ  struck  into  “  Auld  Lang  Syne,” 


OXFORD 


and  the  lads  sprang  up  and  sang  it  lustily  with 
hands  clasped  in  the  approved  Scotch  fashion. 

“‘Rule,  Britannia/  Mr.  Lloyd.” 

Again  he  obliged  them  and  was  rewarded 
by  a  rousing  cheer,  followed  by  cheers  for  the 
Varsity  and  the  ladies,  groans  for  the  Proctors, 
who  are  the  officers  of  discipline,  and  barks 
for  their  assistants,  the  so-called  Bulldogs. 
In  the  midst  of  this  yelping  chorus  the  great 
doors  were  flung  wide,  and  an  awesome  file 
of  dignitaries,  in  all  the  blues  and  purples, 
pinks  and  scarlets,  of  their  various  degrees, 
paced  slowly  up  the  aisle,  escorting  their  dis¬ 
tinguished  guests,  savants  of  several  nations, 
and  headed  by  the  Vice-Chancellor,  whose 
array  outwent  Solomon  in  all  his  glory. 

The  top  gallery  was  on  its  feet,  but  not  in 
reverence.  The  organ- march  was  drowned 
in  the  roar  of  lusty  voices  greeting  the  Head 
of  the  University  thus : 

“Oh,  whist,  whist,  whist! 

Here  comes  the  bogie  man. 

Now  go  to  bed,  you  Baby, 

You  Tommy,  Nell,  and  Dan. 

Oh,  whist,  whist,  whist! 

He’ll  catch  ye  if  he  can; 

And  all  the  popsies,  wopsies,  wop, 

Run  for  the  bogie  man.” 

222 


OXFORD 


The  uproar  was  no  whit  diminished  when 
presently  the  Vice-Chancellor  was  seen  to  be 
making  an  address. 

“Who  wrote  it  for  you,  sir?” 

“Oh,  that’s  shocking  bad  Latin.” 

“Jam!  What  kind  of  jam?” 

“It’s  just  what  you  said  to  those  other 
blokes  last  year.” 

“It’s  always  the  same  thing.” 

“It’s  all  blarney.” 

“The  guests  wish  you  were  done,  sir.” 

“You  may  sit  down,  sir.” 

But  the  Vice-Chancellor,  unperturbed,  kept 
on  with  his  inaudible  oratory  to  its  natural 
end. 

A  professor  of  illustrious  name  was  next 
to  rise,  throwing  up  a  laughing  look  at  the 
boys,  whose  tumult  bore  him  down  after  the 
first  few  sentences.  What  matter  ?  It  was 
idle  to  pretend  that  that  great  audience  could 
follow  Latin  speeches.  They  were  all  to  go 
into  print,  and  he  who  would  and  could  might 
read  them  at  his  ease.  The  phrase  that  un¬ 
did  this  genial  personage  was  clarior  luce. 

“Oh,  oh,  sir!  Lucy  who?” 

“Clare  or  Lucy?  Try  for  both,  sir.” 

“We’ll  surely  tell  your  wife,  sir.” 

223 


OXFORD 


“A  sad  example  to  our  youth,  sir.'* 

“You  shock  our  guest  from  Paris,  sir.*' 

The  prize  English  essayist  was  hardly 
allowed  to  recite  the  first  paragraph  of  his 
production. 

<  (  TT  *  99 

Very  nice. 

“But  a  great  bore." 

“It’s  not  as  good  as  mine." 

“That’ll  do,  sir.” 

“The  Vice-Chancellor  is  gaping,  sir." 

“Three  cheers  for  the  lady  who  jilted  the 
Senior  Proctor!” 

Under  the  storm  of  enthusiasm  evoked  by 
this  happy  suggestion,  the  English  essayist 
gave  place  to  the  Greek  poet,  a  rosy- cheeked 
stripling  who  stood  his  ground  barely  two 
minutes. 

“Aren’t  you  very  young,  my  dear?" 

“Will  some  kind  lady  kiss  him  for  his 
mother  ?” 

The  English  prize  poem,  the  Newdigate, 
founded  by  Sir  Roger  Newdigate  of  the 
George  Eliot  country,  was  heard  through 
with  a  traditional  attention  and  respect, 
though  the  poet’s  delivery  came  in  for  occa¬ 
sional  criticism. 

“You’re  too  singsong,  sir." 

224 


OXFORD 


“Please  give  him  the  key,  Mr.  Lloyd.” 

Even  those  few  world- famed  scholars  and 
statesmen  on  whom  the  University  was  con¬ 
ferring  the  high  distinction  of  her  D.  C.  L. 
were  showered  with  merry  impudence,  as  one 
by  one  they  advanced  to  receive  the  honour, 
though  there  were  no  such  lucky  shots  of  wit 
as  have  signalised,  on  dilferent  occasions,  at 
Oxford  or  at  Cambridge,  the  greeting  of  cer¬ 
tain  popular  poets.  Holmes  was  asked  from 
the  gallery  if  he  had  come  in  the  one- boss  shay, 
and  Longfellow,  wearing  the  gorgeous  vest¬ 
ments  of  his  new  dignity,  was  hailed  by  a  cry : 
“Behold  the  Red  Man  of  the  West.”  Even 
the  Laureate,  whose  prophet  locks  were  flung 
back  from  his  inspired  brow  somewhat  more 
wildly  than  their  wont,  was  assailed  by  a 
stentorian  inquiry : 

“  Did  your  mother  call  you  early,  call  you 
early,  Alfred  dear?” 

The  conferring  of  degrees  upon  Oxford 
students  takes  place  —  at  irregular  intervals, 
but  not  infrequently  —  in  the  Convocation 
House.  Into  a  long,  narrow  room,  digni¬ 
taries  grouped  at  the  top  and  candidates  at 
the  bottom,  with  guests  seated  in  rows  on 
either  side,  sweeps  the  Vice-Chancellor  in  his 
16  525 


OXFORD 


gorgeous  red  and  white.  He  is  preceded  by 
the  mace- bearer  and  followed  by  two  Proctors. 
Taking  the  place  of  honour,  he  reads  a  page 
or  two  of  Latin,  lifting  his  cap  —  the  Proctors 
raising  theirs  in  solemn  unison  —  whenever 
the  word  Dominus  occurs.  The  lists  of  can¬ 
didates  for  the  various  degrees  are  then  read, 
and  the  Proctors,  at  the  end  of  each  list,  rise 
simultaneously,  march  a  few  steps  down  the 
hall,  wheel  with  military  precision,  and,  like 
the  King  of  France,  march  back  again.  These 
apparently  wayward  promenades  are  sup¬ 
posed  to  give  opportunity  for  tradesmen  with 
unpaid  bills  to  imperil  a  candidate’s  degree 
by  plucking  the  Proctor’s  gown.  The  Ox¬ 
ford  tradesmen  have  not  availed  themselves 
of  this  privilege  for  a  century  or  so,  but  the 
term  plucked  is  only  too  familiar.  With  many 
bows  and  much  Latin,  even  with  kneeling  that 
the  Vice-Chancellor  may  tap  the  learned  pates 
with  a  Testament,  the  higher  degrees  are  con¬ 
ferred.  Each  brand-new  doctor  withdraws 
into  the  robing-room,  where  his  waiting  friends 
eagerly  divest  him  of  his  old  plumage  and 
trick  him  out  in  gayer  hood  and  more  volumi¬ 
nous  gown.  So  arrayed,  he  returns  for  a  low 
bow  to  the  Vice-Chancellor,  who  touches  his 

226 


OXFORD 


own  mortar-board  in  response.  The  larger 
company  of  candidates  for  the  first  degree 
come  forward  in  groups,  each  head  of  a  col¬ 
lege  presenting  his  own  men,  and  these  are 
speedily  made  into  bachelors. 

Out  of  that  student  multitude  have  come 

—  not  all,  be  it  confessed,  with  degrees  — 
many  of  England’s  greatest.  Glorious  phan¬ 
toms  haunt  by  moonlight  the  Gothic  shadows 
of  High  Street.  The  gallant  Lovelace,  the 
resolute  Pym,  Admiral  Blake,  Sir  Philip  Sid¬ 
ney,  Francis  Beaumont,  Lord  Herbert  of 
Cherbury,  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  Dr.  Johnson, 
Dean  Swrift,  Wellington,  Peel,  Gladstone, 
Adam  Smith,  Hamilton,  Locke,  Hobbes, 
Blackstone,  Newman,  Manning,  Stanley, 
Maurice,  Faber,  Heber,  Clough,  Jeremy 
Taylor,  Whitfield,  the  Wesleys,  the  Arnolds, 

—  and  this  is  but  the  beginning  of  a  tale  that 
can  never  be  told.  Yet  Oxford,  “Adorable 
Dreamer”  though  she  be, 

“Still  nursing  the  unconquerable  hope,” 

has  not  done  as  well  by  her  poets  as  by  the 
rest  of  her  brood.  With  all  her  theology, 
she  did  not  make  a  churchman  out  of  Swin¬ 
burne,  nor  a  saint  of  Herrick,  and  as  for 

227 


OXFORD 


Landor  and  Shelley,  her  eyes  were  holden 
and  she  cast  them  forth. 

Of  Shakespeare,  an  alien  figure  crossing 
the  path  of  her  gowned  and  hooded  doctors, 
or  watching  her  “young  barbarians  all  at 
play”  — for  Oxford  lads  knew  how  to  play 
before  ever  “Eights  Week”  was  thought 
of  —  she  seems  to  have  remembered  nothing 
save  that  he  stood  godfather  to  his  landlady’s 
baby-boy,  little  William  Davenant,  in  the  old 
Saxon  church  of  St.  Michael’s.  Oxford  let 
him  pay  his  reckoning  at  the  Crown  and  go 
his  way  unnoted.  He  was  none  of  hers. 
Even  now,  when  his  name  is  blazoned  on 
rows  upon  rows  of  volumes  in  window  after 
window  of  Broad  Street,  I  doubt  if  the  Ox¬ 
ford  dons  would  deem  Shakespeare  capable 
of  editing  his  own  works. 

“Where  were  you  bred? 

And  how  achieved  you  these  endowments,  which 
You  make  more  rich  to  owe?” 

One  would  like  to  fancy  that  Duke  Hum¬ 
phrey’s  library,  beautiful  as  a  library  of 
Paradise,  made  the  poet  welcome;  but  the 
King’s  Commissioners  had  despoiled  it  in 
1550,  and  more  than  half  a  century  went  by 

228 


OXFORD 


before,  toward  the  close  of  Shakespeare’s 
life.  Sir  Thomas  Bodley  had  refounded  and 
refitted  it  as  The  Bodleian. 

Yet  the  grey  university  city,  “spreading 
her  gardens  to  the  moonlight,  and  whisper¬ 
ing  from  her  towers  the  last  enchantments 
of  the  Middle  Age,"  —  how  could  she  have 
failed  deeply  to  impress  the  sensitive  spirit 
of  that  disregarded  wayfarer  ?  Although  she 
had  suffered  so  grievously  under  the  flail 
of  the  Reformation,  although  she  w’as  des¬ 
tined  to  become  the  battered  stronghold  of 
Charles  I,  the  voice  within  her  gates  w'as, 
and  is,  not  the  battle-crv,  but  the  murmurous 
voice  of  meditation  and  dream  and  prayer. 
As  we  enter  into  the  sanctuary  of  her  grave 
beauty,  personal  chagrins  and  the  despair 
of  our  own  brief  mortality  fall  awray.  The 
unending  life  of  human  thought  is  here, 
enduring,  achieving,  advancing,  with  its  con¬ 
stant  miracle  of  resurrection  out  of  the  old 
form  into  the  new. 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN 
VALLEY 


OF  the  counties  occupying  the  Severn 
basin,  three  form,  in  continuation 
with  Cheshire,  the  Welsh  border,  — 
Shropshire,  Hereford,  and  Monmouth.  Shrop¬ 
shire,  together  with  the  West  Midland  counties 
of  Worcester  and  Gloucester,  is  traversed  by 
the  mother  stream,  but  Hereford  and  Mon¬ 
mouth  lie  in  their  respective  vales  of  the  tribu¬ 
tary  Wye  and  Usk,  and  Warwickshire,  already 
noted,  in  the  broad  basin  of  the  Avon. 

In  previous  summers  we  had  explored,  to 
some  extent,  Gloucestershire  and  Worcester¬ 
shire  and  the  picturesque  Wye  valley,  but 
we  were,  except  for  glimpses  from  the  rail¬ 
way,  strangers  to  Shropshire,  and  so  dropped 
off  the  train  at  Shrewsbury,  in  a  Saturday 
twilight,  with  but  moderate  expectation. 
Had  not  the  judicious  Baedeker  instructed 
us  that  “not  more  than  half  a  day  need  be 
devoted  to  Shrewsbury”?  What  happened 
was  that  we  lost  our  hearts  to  the  beautiful 

230 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


old  town  and  lingered  there  nearly  a  week 
without  finding  time,  even  so,  to  do  a  third 
of  the  tourist  duty  laid  down  in  what  a  guile¬ 
less  Florentine  has  called  “the  red  prayer- 
book  of  the  foreigners.”  But  we  would 
gladly  have  stayed  months  longer  and  listened 
for  the  moonlight  talk  between  that  lofty 
Norman  castle,  “builte  in  such  a  brave 
plot  that  it  could  have  espyed  a  byrd  flying 
in  every  strete,”  and  those  fine  old  houses  of 
the  Salop  black-and-white  whose  “curious 
sculptures  and  carvings  and  quirks  of  archi¬ 
tecture”  gave  such  pleasure  to  Hawthorne. 
Surely  here,  in  this  city  of  many  memories, 
“a  stone  shall  cry  out  of  the  wall,  and  the 
beam  out  of  the  timber  shall  answer  it.” 

Shrewsbury  is  but  a  little  city, —  one  of  the 
local  proverbs  runs :  “We  don’t  go  by  size,  or 
a  cow  would  catch  a  hare,  ”—  but  its  architec¬ 
tural  grace  and  a  certain  joyousness  of  open- 
air  life  more  French  than  English  endow  it 
with  rare  charm.  It  won  a  fitting  praise  from 
its  own  Tudor  poet,  Thomas  Churchyard : 

“Now  Shrewsbury  shall  be  honoured  (as  it  ought); 

The  seate  deserves  a  righte  greate  honour  heere; 

That  walled  town  is  sure  so  finely  wrought, 

It  glads  itself,  and  beautifies  the  sheere.” 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


Fortunate  in  situation,  Shrewsbury  is  en¬ 
throned  upon  twin  hills  almost  surrounded 
by  the  Severn.  As  one  of  the  warders  of  the 
Welsh  border,  it  was  stoutly  fortified,  and 
enough  of  the  old  wall  remains  to  make  a 
pleasant  promenade.  On  the  only  land  ap¬ 
proach,  an  isthmus  barely  three  hundred 
yards  broad,  stands  the  square  red  keep  of 
the  castle.  The  slender  spire  of  St.  Mary’s 
is  a  landmark  far  and  wide.  St.  Alkmund’s, 
with  a  sister  spire,  has  a  tradition  that 
reaches  back  to  .Ethelfreda,  daughter  of 
Alfred  the  Great.  Old  St.  Chad’s,  a  noble 
church  in  the  days  of  Henry  III,  has  swayed 
and  sunk  into  a  fragment  that  serves  as 
chapel  for  the  cemetery  where  some  of  the 
first  Salopian  families  take  their  select  repose. 
The  towered  Abbey  Church  is  of  venerable 
dignity,  with  battered  monuments  of  cross- 
legged  knight  and  chaliced  priest,  and  a 
meek,  bruised,  broken  effigy  supposed  to 
represent  that  fiery  founder  of  the  abbey, 
first  Earl  of  Shrewsbury  and  builder  of 
the  castle,  Roger  de  Montgomery,  second 
in  command  at  Hastings  to  William  the 
Conqueror. 

The  first  known  name  of  Shrewsbury  wa3 
232 


THE  SEVERN  BELOW  THE  QUARRY,  SHREWSBURY 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 

The  Delight,  and  by  that  name  it  may  well 
be  remembered  of  those  who  have  wandered 
through  Wyle  Cop  and  Butchers’  Row,  past 
the  Raven  tavern  where  Farquhar  wrote 
“The  Recruiting  Officer”  and  the  old  half- 
timbered  house  where  Richmond,  soon  to 
be  Henry  VII,  lodged  on  his  way  to  Bosworth 
Field.  There  are  steep  streets  that,  as  the 
proverb  has  it,  go  “uphill  and  against  the 
heart,”  but  carven  gables  and  armorial  bear¬ 
ings  and  mediaeval  barge- boards  tempt  one 
on.  There  are  wild  and  fierce  associations, 
as  that  of  the  Butter  Market,  where  at  the 
High  Cross  poor  Prince  David  of  Wales  — 
who  must  have  had  nine  lives  —  after  being 
dragged  through  the  town  at  a  horse’s  tail, 
was  “hanged,  burned  and  quartered,”  but 
in  the  main  it  is  a  city  of  gracious  memories. 
Its  Grammar  School,  an  Edward  VI  founda¬ 
tion,  which  in  the  seventeenth  century  boasted 
four  masters,  six  hundred  scholars,  and  a 
“hansome  library,”  counts  on  its  roll  of 
alumni  Charles  Darwin,  the  most  famous 
native  of  Shrewsbury,  the  poet  Faber,  Philip 
Sidney  and  his  fidus  Achates,  Fulke  Greville, 
whose  tomb  in  St.  Mary’s  Church  at  War¬ 
wick  bears  the  inscription  that  he  was  “Ser- 

233 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


vant  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  Counsellour  to 
King  James,  and  Friend  to  Sir  Philip  Sid¬ 
ney/’  It  was  in  1564,  that  starry  year  in 
English  literary  annals,  that  the  two  lads 
entered  the  school.  Sidney’s  father  was  then 
Lord  President  of  Wales  —  one  of  the  best 
she  ever  had  —  and  resident  at  Ludlow 
Castle,  from  whose  splendid  halls  Sir  Henry 
and  Lady  Mary  wrote  most  wise  and  tender 
letters  to  their  “little  Philip.”  He  must 
have  profited  by  these,  for  in  after  years 
Fulke  Greville  extolled  him  as  the  paragon 
of  schoolboys: 

“Of  his  youth  I  will  report  no  other  wonder  than 
this,  though  I  lived  with  him  and  knew  him  from  a 
child,  yet  I  never  knew  him  other  than  a  man,  with 
such  staidness  of  mind,  lovely  and  familiar  gravity, 
as  carried  grace  and  reverence  above  great  years ;  his 
talk  ever  of  knowledge  and  his  very  play  tending  to 
enrich  his  mind  so  that  even  his  teachers  found 
something  in  him  to  observe  and  learn  above  that 
which  they  had  usually  read  or  taught.” 

The  school,  still  flourishing,  is  now  housed 
in  new  buildings  across  the  Severn,  opposite 
the  Quarry,  a  spacious  park  with 

“  Broad  ambrosial  aisles  of  lofty  limes.” 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


Here  we  used  to  sit  on  shaded  benches  and 
watch  the  briglit-eyed  urchins  fishing  in  the 
river,  for  Shropshire,  as  the  saying  goes,  is 
“full  of  trouts  and  tories.”  Here  we  would 
repeat  Milton’s  invocation  to  the  Goddess  of 
the  Severn: 

“Sabrina  fair. 

Listen  where  thou  art  sitting 
Under  the  glassy,  cool,  translucent  wave, 

In  twisted  braids  of  lilies  knitting 
The  loose  train  of  thy  amber-dropping  hair,” 

and  when  her  “sliding  chariot”  declined  to 
stay  for  us 

“By  the  rushy-fringed  bank,” 

we  would  ignobly  console  ourselves  with  “a 
Shrewsbury  cake  of  Palin’s  own  make,”  — 
such  a  delicious,  melting-on- the- tongue  con¬ 
coction  as  Queen  Bess  was  regaled  withal  and 
as  suggested  to  Congreve,  in  his  “Way  of  the 
World,”  the  retort:  “Why,  brother  Wilful  of 
Salop,  you  may  be  as  short  as  a  Shrewsbury 
cake,  if  you  please.”  The  Simnel  cake  of 
which  Herrick  sings,  — 

“I’ll  to  thee  a  Simnel  bring, 

’Gainst  thou  gocst  a  mothering,” 

23.5 


COUNTIES  OF  TIIE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


is  made  only  in  the  days  approaching  Christ¬ 
mas  and  Easter.  It  consists  of  minced  fruit 
in  a  saffron- coloured  crust,  said  to  be  exceed¬ 
ing  tough,  and  on  Mothering  Sunday,  in  Mid- 
Lent,  is  taken  as  a  gift  to  their  mothers  by 
children  out  at  service,  who,  on  this  local 
festival,  come  home  to  be  welcomed  at  the 
cost  of  the  fatted  calf,  veal  and  rice- pudding 
being  the  regulation  dinner.  The  ancient 
refrain:  “ A  soule-cake,  a  soule-cake !  Have 
mercy  on  all  Christen  soules  for  a  soule- 
cake!”  refers  to  yet  another  specialty  of 
Shropshire  ovens.  On  All  Souls’  Eve  it  used 
to  be  the  custom  to  set  out  on  the  table  a  tower 
of  these  round  flat  cakes,  every  visitor  re¬ 
ducing  the  pile  by  one.  The  residue,  if  resi¬ 
due  there  were,  fell  to  the  share  of  the  poor 
ghosts. 

The  Quarry,  in  the  bad  old  times,  was  often 
the  scene  of  bull- baitings  and  bear-baitings 
and  cock-fights.  It  is  better  to  remember 
that  the  Whitsun  Plays  were  performed  here, 
for  these  were  comely  and  edifying  spectacles. 
In  1568,  when  Sir  Henry  Sidney  favoured  the 
Grammar  School  with  a  visit,  there  was  ‘‘a 
noble  stage  playe  played  at  Shrewsbury,  the 
which  was  praysed  greately,  and  the  chyffe 

236 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


actor  thereof  was  one  Master  Aston,”  being 
no  less  a  personage  than  the  head  master. 

A  Quarry  holiday  that,  by  the  grace  of 
Sabrina,  fell  within  the  brief  limits  of  our 
sojourn,  was  the  Shrewsbury  Floral  Fete, 
vaunted  on  the  pink  program  as  “The  Grand¬ 
est  Fete  in  the  United  Kingdom.”  Our  land¬ 
lady  earnestly  vouched  for  the  truth  of  this 
description.  “There  is  them  who  would  have 
it  as  York  Gala  be  the  greatest,  but  York 
Gala,  grand  however,  ben’t  so  grand  as 
this.” 

On  Wednesday,  August  twenty-second,  we 
took  aristocratic  tickets  at  two  and  six,  for 
Wednesday  is  the  day  of  the  county  families. 
Thursday  is  the  shilling  day,  when,  by  train, 
by  coach,  by  barge,  by  wagonette,  by  farmer’s 
gig  and  carrier’s  cart,  all  the  countryside 
comes  streaming  in.  The  weather  had  been 
watched  with  keen  anxiety.  “Rain  spells 
ruin,”  the  saying  went;  but  it  was  clear  and 
hot.  Men,  women,  and  children  lay  on  the 
grass  around  their  luncheon  baskets  —  we 
had  hardly  expected  this  of  the  county  fami¬ 
lies  —  all  through  the  wide  enclosure,  mak¬ 
ing  the  most  of  every  disk  of  shade.  From 
the  central  bandstand  and  from  the  encircling 

237 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


tents  —  refreshment  tents,  flower  tents,  fruit 
tents,  vegetable  tents,  bee- and-honey  tents  — 
drooped  rows  of  languid  pennons.  The  foun¬ 
tain  in  The  Dingle  sent  up  a  silvery  tree  of 
spray,  while  the  white  and  yellow  water-lilies 
in  its  little  pool  blinked  like  sleepy  children. 
Within  the  tents  the  heat  was  stifling,  but  a 
continuous  flow  of  flushed  humanity,  as  whist 
as  in  the  County  Store  where  even  the  awed 
shop  girls  are  instructed  to  speak  with  bated 
breath,  passed  in  admiring  review  the  sumptu¬ 
ous  masses  of  heavily  fragrant  flowers,  the 
great  black  grapes  almost  bursting  with  wine, 
the  luscious  plums  and  cherries,  the  amazing 
platoons  of  plethoric  onions,  exaggerated  po¬ 
tatoes,  and  preposterously  elongated  turnips 
and  carrots,  the  model  beehives  and  the  jars 
of  amber  honey.  The  gold-medal  exhibitors, 
perspiring  but  beaming,  stood  by  their  red- 
ticketed  products,  while  the  silver- medal  folk 
viewed  their  blue  tickets  with  a  pleasant  sense 
of  superiority  to  the  subdued  white- ticket  bat¬ 
talion  and  the  invisible  yellow- ticketers  who 
were  only  “commended.” 

All  the  while  successive  bands  —  the  Shrop¬ 
shire  Imperial  Yeomanry,  His  Majesty’s 
Coldstream  Guards,  and  His  Majesty’s  Scots 

238 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 

Guards  —  were  merrily  playing  away,  and 
presently  the  clamorous  ringing  of  what  might 
have  been  a  sturdy  dinner-bell  called  us  to  the 
Acrobatic  Stand,  about  which  the  crowd  soon 
became  so  dense,  while  the  somersault  artists 
converted  their  bodies  into  giddy  playthings, 
that  one  rustic  philosopher  was  heard  to  re¬ 
mark:  “Well,  we  ain’t  seeing  owt,  but  we’re 
in  t’  show.”  Then  came  the  horse-leaping, 
which  was  such  a  favourite  feature  that  not 
even  the  miraculous  performances  of  the 
King  of  the  High  Wire,  and  the  ether-dancing 
feats  of  the  Cee  Mee  Troupe  availed  to  divide 
the  multitude.  When  Rufus,  to  the  deep  but 
decorous  delight  of  the  Cheshire  visitors,  had 
outleaped  all  the  rest,  we  swarmed  across  the 
Quarry  and  sat  down  on  the  grass  to  wait  for 
the  ascent  of  the  monster  balloons,  those 
gigantic  golden-brown  puffs  of  gas  that  had 
been  softly  tugging  at  their  bonds  all  the 
morning.  The  Shrewsbury  had  already 
made  a  number  of  captive  ascents  and  finally 
achieved  its  “right  away”  in  good  order,  ris¬ 
ing  majestically  into  the  upper  air  until  it 
hung  like  an  orange  on  our  furthest  reach  of 
vision,  but  the  wayward  Wulfruna  broke  her 
ropes  on  a  captive  trip  and  feloniously  made 

239 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


off  with  several  astonished  passengers,  among 
whose  vanishing  heads  peered  out  the  scared, 
ecstatic  face  of  a  small  boy. 

As  dusk  grew  on,  our  ever-greatening  host 
still  comported  itself  with  well-bred  English 
quietude.  We  never  forgot  what  was  due 
to  the  presence  of  the  county  families.  Even 
the  lads  in  Eton  jackets  tripped  one  another 
up  softly  and  engagingly.  Bath  chairs  and 
baby  wagons  traversed  the  thick  of  the  press. 
The  King  of  the  High  Wire,  who  seemed  to 
be  made  of  air  and  india-rubber,  appeared 
again  and  performed  such  impossible  antics 
on  his  dizzy  line  that  the  setting  sun  rested  its 
chin  on  the  horizon  to  stare  at  him,  and  from 
a  slit  in  the  gaudy  trapeze  tent  lialf-chalked 
visages  peered  out  and  paid  him  the  pro¬ 
fessional  tribute  of  envy.  The  tumblers 
tumbled  more  incredibly  than  before.  The 
Handcuff  King  shuffled  off  one  mortal  coil 
after  another.  The  Lady  Cyclists  cycled  in 
an  extremely  unladylike  manner,  —  a  per¬ 
formance  punctuated  by  the  impatient  yelp¬ 
ing  of  little  dogs  beneath  the  stage,  eager 
to  show  off  their  own  accomplishments. 
On  they  came  at  last,  bounding,  barking, 
wagging,  tumultuous,  all  striving  to  take 

240 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


part  in  every  trick.  They  quite  refused 
to  stop  when  their  respective  turns  were 
over,  but  went  on  all  together  excitedly 
jumping  rope  and  hitting  ball  long  after 
ropes  and  balls  had  disappeared,  until  they 
were  unceremoniously  picked  up  and  bun¬ 
dled  down  a  trap-door,  an  exit  of  wagging 
tail- tips. 

As  darkness  fell,  the  Severn  was  all  astir 
with  pleasure-boats,  while  happy  ragamuffins, 
getting  their  fireworks  for  nothing,  thronged 
the  further  bank.  Rockets  went  skittering 
over  our  heads,  fire-wheels  spluttered  and 
whizzed,  and  as  the  first  of  the  fire- balloons 
flashed  up,  a  baby  voice  behind  us  piped : 

“O  mummy,  mummy!  See!  There’s 
a  somebody  died  and  going  up  to  heaven.” 

Altogether  the  Floral  Fete  was  as  sweet- 
natured  and  pleasurable  a  festival  as  ever  we 
chanced  upon  and  completed  our  subjuga¬ 
tion  to  this  old  town  that  the  Severn  so 
lovingly  embraces.  To  quote  from  a  black- 
letter  ballad  treasured  in  the  Bodleian : 

“The  merry  Town  of  Shrewsbury 
God  bless  it  still, 

For  it  stands  most  gallantly 
Upon  a  high  hill. 

241 


16 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


It  standeih  most  bravely 
For  sH  men  to  see 
Then  every  man  to  hi?  mind, 

Shrowrsbmy  for  me!" 

The  countv  of  Shropshire  smooths  away 
on  the  east  into  a  level  pasture-land  belonging 
to  the  central  plain  of  England,  but  its  western 
portion  is  roughened  by  the  spurs  of  the  Welsh 
mountains.  Its  own  mountain  is  die  W  re  kin, 
a  solitary  height  a  few  miles  to  the  east  of 
Shrewsbury.  The  summit  commands  so 
vude  a  view  that  the  toast  of  Salopians  every¬ 
where  is  “All  round  the  Wrekin."  South  of 
the  Severn  run  several  ranges  of  hills  down 
toward  the  hop-gardens  and  apple-orchards 
of  Hereford  and  Worcester.  Of  these.  “Glee 
Hills."  the  highest  of  the  ranges,  “be  holy  in 
Shropshire."  1  North  Salop  has  a  coal- held, 
with  its  accompanying  prosperity  and  dis¬ 
figurement,  —  busy  factories,  belching  fur¬ 
naces.  houses  that  tip  and  tumble  from  the 
hollowing  out  of  the  ground  beneath.  Vs  e 
rioted  in  our  memorable  motor  car  through 
several  of  these  grimy  towns.  Wellington 
amonc:  them,  and  Newport,  where  the  run- 

awav  Shrewsburv  balloon  came  safelv  cova. 
•  •  • 

-  Ldaad.. 

54<e 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


Wellington  cherishes  a  legend  relating  to  a 
bad  old  giant  of  Wales,  who,  having  a  spite 
against  the  Mayor  of  Shrewsbury,  purposed  to 
choke  up  the  Severn  and  drown  out  the  town. 
So  he  started  off  with  a  heavy  sack  of  earth 
over  his  shoulder,  but  lost  his  way,  like  the 
stupid  giant  he  was,  and  met,  near  Welling¬ 
ton,  a  cobbler  carrying  home  a  bag  of  boots 
and  shoes  to  mend.  The  giant  asked  him 
how  far  it  was  to  Shrewsbury,  and  the  cobbler, 
emptying  his  sack  of  ragged  footwear,  de¬ 
clared  he  had  worn  out  all  those  boots  and 
shoes  on  the  road.  This  so  discouraged  the 
giant  that  he  flung  down  his  burden  of  earth, 
forming  the  Wrekin,  and  trudged  meekly 
home  again. 

Far  more  delightful  than  automobiling 
were  the  leisurely  drives  we  took  in  the  neigh¬ 
bourhood  of  Shrewsbury.  One  fair  after 
noon  we  drove  five  miles  southeast  to 
Wroxeter  to  view  the  tragic  ruins  of  the  Ro¬ 
man  city  of  Uriconium.  Here,  at  the  junc¬ 
tion  of  Watling  Street  with  the  western 
Roman  road,  guarding  these  communications 
and  the  passes  of  the  Severn,  stood  “The 
White  Town  in  the  Woodland.”  The  century 
after  the  Roman  armies  were  withdrawn,  it 

243 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


was  burned  by  the  Saxons.  The  lapse  of 
thirteen  hundred  years  has  not  obliterated 
the  traces  of  that  anguish.  Only  a  little  be¬ 
low  the  surface  lies  earth  still  black  from 
the  heats  of  the  tremendous  conflagration; 
charred  bones  crackle  beneath  the  tread ;  in 
an  under- chamber  of  one  of  the  baths  has 
been  found  the  skeleton  of  an  old  man 
crouched  between  the  pillars,  as  if  seeking 
refuge  from  the  rage  of  fire  and  sword.  The 
skeletons  of  two  women  were  beside  him  and, 
close  to  his  bony  hand,  his  little  hoard  of 
coins.  There  still  stands  a  rugged  mass  of 
wall  some  seventy  feet  in  length,  its  .  Roman 
string-courses  of  flat  red  bricks  showing 
bright  against  the  prevailing  grey  of  that 
jagged,  gaping  structure.  Now  birds  nest  in 
it,  and  from  the  lower  heaps  and  ranges  of 
broken  masonry  all  about  springs  the  wild 
rose  as  well  as  the  thistle.  Uriconium  was 
larger  than  Pompeii,  and  its  ruins,  said  to 
be  the  most  extensive  of  their  kind  in 
England,  smite  one  with  heartache.  We 
roamed  about  its  grassy  hollows  and  thicketed 
mounds,  its  bone-strewn  forum,  and  its  baths 
with  their  patches  of  mosaic  flooring,  their 
groups  of  little  brick  columns,  and  other 

244 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 

fragments  of  a  perished  luxury.  We  won¬ 
dered  that  the  sky  above  this  city  left  so 
desolate,  a  sky  of  softest  azure  flecked  with 
cloudlets  dazzling  white,  did  not  wear  per¬ 
petual  shadow  for  its  sake.  But  those 
heavens  were  as  serene  as  if  the  dying  wail 
of  Uriconium  had  never  pierced  them,  and 
the  cleft  summit  of  Milton’s  “blue-topped 
Wrekin  ”  —  a  deep,  intense,  gleaming  blue 
it  was  that  afternoon  — kept  no  memory  of 
the  day  when  the  Severn  ran  red  with  blood 
and  its  own  head  was  veiled  with  smoke  and 
ashes. 

The  noble  Norman  church  of  Wroxeter, 
near  by,  has  set  at  its  churchyard  gate  two 
Roman  pillars  with  finely  sculptured  capitals 
that  have  been  recovered  from  the  river-bed. 
Its  font  is  hollowed  out  of  another  Roman 
capital  and  looks  only  half  converted.  The 
church  is  remarkable  for  its  Easter  sepulchre, 
an  arched  niche  in  the  north  wall  of  the  chan¬ 
cel,  and  for  its  altar- tombs.  This  Easter 
sepulchre,  where  the  crucifix  would  have  been 
placed  on  Good  Friday  to  be  raised  again 
with  rejoicing  on  Easter  morning,  is  of  creamy 
stone  with  ball-flower  ornament.  Within  the 
niche  are  reddish  traces  of  a  Resurrection 

245 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


fresco.  The  effigies  on  the  altar- tombs  have 
been  singularly  preserved  from  mutilation. 
Even  the  rings  upon  those  comely  hands  that 
clasp  their  prayer-books  in  the  centuried 
trance  of  their  devotions  remain  intact.  Here 
sleeps  a  Jacobean  baronet  splendid  in  scarlet 
alabaster  robes  and  broad  gilt  chain.  A  pea¬ 
cock  is  at  his  head  and  a  lion’s  claw  at  his 
feet.  His  lady,  from  gold  head-dress  to 
dainty  shoon,  is  no  less  immaculate.  May 
their  rest  on  their  stone  pillows  be  forever  un¬ 
profaned  !  In  that  hushed  and  almost  for¬ 
gotten  sanctuary  slumber  also  Elizabethan 
knights  and  ladies  whose  tombs,  wrought 
about  with  quaint  figures,  are  peculiarly  in¬ 
dividual  and  tempted  us  to  closer  study  than 
the  waning  light  allowed. 

There  were  many  pilgrimages  we  longed 
to  make  in  Shropshire  —  to  the  birthplace  and 
burial-place  of  Lord  Clive,  her  Indian  hero, 
and  to  the  home  of  Lord  Herbert  of  Chirbury, 
brother  of  the  Saintly  George  Herbert,  himself 
a  Jacobean  courtier  only  less  eminent  in  letters 
than  in  life.  Even  bluff  Ben  Jonson  hailed 
him  as  “  All- virtuous  Herbert.”  Other  Shrop¬ 
shire  worthies,  who  w7ould  hardly  so  have 
designated  each  other,  are  Richard  Baxter 

246 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


and  William  Wycherley.  Two  others  that  I 
would  like,  in  the  interests  of  a  broader 
charity,  to  pair  together  in  the  procession 
of  great  Salopian  ghosts,  are  Bishop  Percy  of 
the  “Reliques,”  and  Dick  Tarlton,  lord  of 
mirth,  the  best- beloved  clown  of  the  Eliza¬ 
bethan  stage.  The  queen  herself  had  a 
good  friend  in  Dick  Tarlton,  for  he  told  her, 
says  Fuller,  “more  of  her  faults  than  most 
of  her  chaplains  and  cured  her  melancholy 
better  than  all  her  physicians.” 

The  inexorable  almanac  urged  us  on,  but 
one  excursion  that  we  could  not  forego  was 
that  to  Battlefield  Church.  Thither  we  drove 
through  such  a  tender  afternoon,  the  soft  sky 
brooding  close  above  the  earth  as  if  she  loved 
it,  that  it  was  hard  to  realise  associations  of 
wrath  and  war.  The  sun  made  golden 
windows  in  the  clouds.  The  brown  Severn 
was  slyly  breaking  down  its  banks  as  it  ran. 
We  took  our  way  through  Shropshire  lanes 
whose  hawthorn  hedges  on  either  side  were 
fringed  with  yellow  wisps  of  rye  scraped  off 
from  the  harvest  loads.  Beyond  we  came 
upon  the  harvest  fields  with  their  shining 
stacks.  And  in  Battlefield  Church  itself  we 
found,  almost  rough-hewn  from  the  tree- 

247 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


trunk,  a  mediaeval  image  of  Our  Lady  of 
Pity. 

Here  was  fought  on  another  summer  day, 
July  21,  1403,  the  decisive  battle  between 
Henry  IV  and  the  Percies.  Henry  had  sat 
but  four  years  upon  his  troubled  throne  when 
these  proud  nobles  of  the  north,  by  whose  aid 
he  had  ousted  Richard  II,  rose  against  him. 
Although  Richard  had  been  murdered,  Ed¬ 
mund  Mortimer,  the  next  of  blood,  was  a 
thorn  in  Henry’s  pillow.  Mortimer  had  been 
taken  prisoner  by  the  revolting  Welsh  leader, 
Owen  Glendower,  and  Henry,  if  we  may  take 
Shakespeare  for  our  historian,  listened  coldly 
and  incredulously  to  Harry  Percy’s  assur¬ 
ances  of  Mortimer’s  resistance.  In  vain  did 
this  eloquent  Hotspur,  Mortimer’s  brother- 
in-law,  pour  forth  his  impetuous  tale  —  how 


“on  the  gentle  Severn’s  sedgy  bank, 

In  single  opposition,  hand  to  hand, 

He  did  confound  the  best  part  of  an  hour 
In  changing  hardiment  with  great  Glendower; 

Three  times  they  breath’d,  and  three  times  did  they  drink, 
Upon  agreement,  of  swift  Severn’s  flood; 

Who  then,  affrighted  with  their  bloody  looks, 

Ran  fearfully  among  the  trembling  reeds, 

And  hid  his  crisp  head  in  the  hollow  bank 
Blood-stained  with  those  valiant  combatants.” 

248 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


When  the  king  refused  to  ransom  Mor¬ 
timer,  Hotspur’s  anger  bubbled  over: 

‘‘He  said  he  would  not  ransom  Mortimer, 

Forbade  my  tongue  to  speak  of  Mortimer, 

But  I  will  find  him  when  he  lies  asleep. 

And  in  his  ear  I’ll  holla  ‘Mortimer!’ 

Nay, 

I  ’ll  have  a  starling  shall  be  taught  to  speak 
Nothing  but  ‘Mortimer’  and  give  it  him.” 


Thus  Hotspur,  and  his  father,  the  Earl  of 
Northumberland,  his  uncle,  the  Earl  of  Wor¬ 
cester,  “the  irregular  and  wild  Glendower,” 
and  the  valiant  Douglas  of  Scotland  raised 
their  united  banners  against  the  usurper. 
Many  Cheshire  gentlemen,  to  their  sorrow, 
joined  Hotspur  as  he  marched  through  their 
county.  He  came  in  sight  of  Shrewsbury  on 
the  evening  of  July  nineteenth.  But  Henry  was 
there  before  him ;  the  royal  standard  floated 
over  the  castle ;  and  it  was  three  or  four  miles  to 
the  north  of  the  town  that  the  shock  of  battle 
came.  Five  thousand  of  the  rebels  and  three 
thousand  of  the  loyal  forces  fell.  The  Earl 
of  Worcester  was  slain  on  the  field,  and  “  that 
spirit  Percy  ”  himself,  “the  theme  of  honour’s 
tongue,”  he  who  had  ever  been  “sweet  for¬ 
tune’s  minion  and  her  pride,”  perished  there 

249 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


in  the  toils  of  his  “ill- weav’d  ambition.” 
The  traditional  spot  where  he  fell  is  pointed 
out,  as  also  the  antique  oak  from  whose 
leafy  top  Owen  Glendower  is  fabled  to  have 
watched,  at  a  safe  distance,  the  fortunes  of  the 
fight. 

Battlefield  Church  was  built  in  gratitude 
for  this  victory,  and  a  perpetual  chantry  of 
eight  canons  was  endowed  to  serve  it  with 
daily  masses  “for  the  king’s  salvation  during 
his  life,  and  after  his  death  for  his  soul,  and 
for  the  souls  of  his  progenitors  and  of  those 
who  were  slain  in  the  battle  and  were  there 
buried,  and  for  the  souls  of  all  the  faithful 
departed.”  The  meadow  behind  the  church, 
which,  with  its  mounds,  ridges,  and  depres¬ 
sions,  still  bears  the  battle- scars,  is  supposed 
to  be  the  grave  of  thousands  of  the  soldiers. 
The  masses  were  duly  said  for  nearly  one 
hundred  and  fifty  years,  until  the  chantry  was 
surrendered  to  Henry  VIII.  The  church, 
abandoned  after  the  Dissolution  and  suffered 
to  fall  into  decay,  has  been  restored.  Its 
curious  image  of  Our  Lady  of  Pity  was 
an  ancient  treasure  of  Albright  Hussey,  a 
neighbouring  hamlet  where  we  paused  on 
our  homeward  wav  to  see  a  veritable 

250 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


moated  grange,  and  was  brought  to  Battle¬ 
field  early  in  the  fifteenth  century,  when  the 
church  was  consecrated.  In  the  vestry  are  two 
small  windows  that  keep  such  bits  of  the 
original  glass  as  could  be  gathered  up  from 
the  pile  of  shreds  and  splinters  stored  away 
in  a  farm-building  close  by.  One  of  the 
recovered  designs  is  a  figure  of  Saint  Eliz¬ 
abeth  of  Hungary,  vivid,  ascetic,  with  loaf 
in  hand.  But  more  vital  yet  is  the  portrait 
of  Henry  IV  —  a  royal  form  robed  in  such 
glowing,  living  crimson  as  only  the  old  crafts¬ 
men  knew  how  to  pour  into  their  glass. 
The  face,  “wan  with  care,”  is  earnest  and 
sorrowful. 

Many  are  the  battle- tales  of  these  counties 
on  the  Welsh  marches.  William  the  Con¬ 
queror  gave  leave  to  certain  of  his  followers 
to  take  and  hold  what  land  they  could  in  that 
wild  region,  and  a  line  of  strong  castles  was 
erected ;  but  the  fierce  British,  making  sudden 
raids  from  their  mountain  fastnesses,  were  a 
constant  threat  and  trouble,  until  Edward  I, 
despite  the  tuneful  curses  of  all  the  Welsh 
bards,  reduced  them  to  subjection,  putting 
the  last  native  Prince  of  Wales  to  a  cruel 
death  at  Shrewsbury  and  transferring  the 

251 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


title  to  his  own  firstborn  son.  As  the  juris¬ 
diction  of  the  Marches  became  of  importance, 
special  courts  were  held  by  the  Prince  of 
Wales  either  in  person  or  through  a  deputy 
known  as  the  Lord  President  of  Wales,  —  an 
office  not  abolished  until  1688.  The  seat  of 
these  courts  was  Ludlow,  a  place  that  even 
to  our  partial  eyes  rivalled  Shrewsbury  in 
beauty  and  is  counted  by  many  the  banner 
town  of  England.  It  stands  in  the  very 
south  of  Shropshire  on  a  commanding  height 
just  where  the  river  Teme,  which  forms  the 
Hereford  boundary,  is  joined  by  the  Corve. 
The  lofty- towered  Church  of  St.  Lawrence, 
only  second  in  praise  to  St.  Mary  Redcliffe 
of  Bristol,  and  the  impressive  remains  of 
what  was  once  both  Castle  and  Princely 
Palace  crown  this  precipitous  mass  of 
rock,  from  which  broad  streets,  retain¬ 
ing  a  goodly  number  of  stately  timbered 
houses  dating  from  the  times  when  the 
Courts  of  the  Marches  gathered  illustrious 
companies  at  Ludlow,  descend  to  plain  and 
river.  No  description  of  this  once  royal 
residence,  with  its  pure,  bracing  atmos¬ 
phere,  can  better  the  honest  lines  of  old 
Tom  Churchyard: 


252 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


“The  towne  doth  stand  most  part  upon  a  hill. 

Built  well  and  fayre,  with  streates  both  longe  and  wide; 
The  houses  such,  where  straungers  lodge  at  will. 

As  long  as  there  the  Counsell  lists  abide. 

“Both  fine  and  cleane  the  streates  are  all  throughout. 

With  condits  cleere  and  wholesome  water  springs; 

And  who  that  lists  to  walk  the  towne  about 

Shall  find  therein  some  rare  and  pleasant  things; 

But  chiefly  there  the  ayre  so  sweete  you  have 
As  in  no  place  ye  can  no  better  crave.” 


The  magnificent  old  castle  has  seen  strange 
sights.  While  undergoing  siege  by  Stephen,  in 
his  war  against  Maud,  Prince  Henry  of  Scot¬ 
land,  who  accompanied  him,  was  caught  up  by 
a  long  iron  hook  and  all  but  pulled  within 
the  walls.  Stephen  himself  galloped  up  just 
in  time  to  cut  the  cords  with  his  sword  and 
rescue  the  dangling  prince.  The  redoubtable 
Sir  Hugh  de  Mortimer,  Lord  of  Wigmore, 
once  lay  captive  in  what  is  still  known  as 
Mortimer’s  Tower.  It  cost  him  three  thou¬ 
sand  marks  of  silver,  besides  all  his  plate, 
horses,  and  hawks,  to  go  free  again.  Ludlow 
Castle  was,  at  a  later  period,  added  by  mar¬ 
riage  to  the  already  formidable  holdings  of 
the  Mortimers.  Roger  de  Mortimer  took  an 
active  part  in  the  deposition  of  Edward  II  and 
was  created  Earl  of  March.  In  imitation  of 

253 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


King  Arthur,  whose  great  tradition  arches 
over  all  that  countryside,  the  ambitious  young 
noble  held  a  Round  Table,  and  conducted 
Queen  Isabella,  with  whom  his  relations  were 
not  above  suspicion,  and  his  boy  sovereign, 
Edward  III,  to  his  castles  of  Wigmore  and 
Ludlow,  where  he  entertained  them  with 
“great  costs  in  tilts  and  other  pastimes.” 
There  was  not  room  in  England  for  him  and 
for  a  king,  and  his  arrogant  career  was  ended 
on  the  Smithfield  gibbet.  Marlowe  gives  him 
a  proud  exit  from  the  tragic  stage : 

“Weep  not  for  Mortimer 
That  scorns  the  world  and,  as  a  traveler. 

Goes  to  discover  countries  yet  unknown.” 

It  was  his  great-grandson,  Edmund  de 
Mortimer,  who,  by  marriage  with  the  daughter 
of  Prince  Lionel,  third  son  of  Edward  III, 
gave  that  other  Edmund  Mortimer,  his  de¬ 
scendant,  a  better  title  to  the  throne  than  that 
of  Henry  IY.  This  last  of  the  Mortimers  was 
until  his  death  the  apparently  listless  centre 
of  continual  conspiracies.  When  he  gave  up 
his  ineffectual  ghost,  his  estates  passed  to  his 
nephew,  the  vigorous  Duke  of  York,  who 
fixed  his  chief  residence  at  Ludlow  Castle. 
As  the  York  rebellion  gathered  force  and  the 

254 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 

Wars  of  the  Roses  set  in,  this  neighbourhood 
became  a  centre  of  hostilities.  The  Lancas¬ 
trians,  in  their  hour  of  triumph,  wreaked 
furious  vengeance  on  Ludlow,  but  Edward 
IV,  on  his  accession,  consoled  the  town  with 
a  liberal  charter  and  selected  it  as  the  resi¬ 
dence  of  his  sons,  the  Little  Princes  of  the 
Tower.  It  is  pleasant  to  think  that  before 
their  swift  fate  came  upon  them  they  had  a 
few  years  of  happy  childhood  playing  on  the 
greensward  of  those  spacious  courts,  perched 
up  with  their  lesson  books  in  the  stone  win¬ 
dow-seats,  and  praying  their  innocent  prayers 
within  the  arcaded  walls  of  that  circular  Nor¬ 
man  chapel,  built  on  the  model  of  the  Church 
of  the  Holy  Sepulchre  and  praised  by  Church¬ 
yard  as 

“So  bravely  wrought,  so  fayre  and  finely  fram’d. 

That  to  world’s  end  the  beauty  may  endure.” 

Another  princely  association,  hardly  less  pa¬ 
thetic,  haunts  these  arched  portals  and  embat¬ 
tled  towers.  The  heir  of  Henry  VII,  Prince 
Arthur,  in  whom  the  greatness  of  Britain’s 
legendary  hero  was  to  live  again,  passed  his 
delicate  childhood  here,  and  here,  shortly 
after  his  marriage  to  Catherine  of  Arragon, 

255 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 

died  suddenly  on  a  spring  day  of  1502,  a  lad 
of  sixteen  summers.  An  unknown  contem¬ 
porary  tells  how  letters  were  hastily  de¬ 
spatched  from  Ludlow  to  His  Majesty’s 
Council,  and  they,  seeking  the  gentlest  bearer 
of  such  grievous  news,  “sent  for  the  King’s 
ghostly  father.  .  .  .  He  in  the  morning  of  the 
Tuesday  following,  somewhat  before  the  time 
accustomed,  knocked  at  the  King’s  chamber 
door;  and  when  the  King  understood  it  was 
his  Confessor,  he  commanded  to  let  him  in. 
The  Confessor  then  commanded  all  those 
there  present  to  avoid,  and  after  due  saluta¬ 
tion  began  to  say,  Si  bona  de  manu  Dei  sus- 
cepimus,  mala  autem  quare  non  sustineamus? 
and  so  showed  his  Grace  that  his  dearest  son 
was  departed  to  God.  When  his  Grace  un¬ 
derstood  that  sorrowful  heavy  tidings,  he  sent 
for  the  Queen,  saying  that  he  and  his  Queen 
would  take  the  painful  sorrows  together. 
After  that  she  was  come,  and  saw  the  King 
her  lord  and  that  natural  and  painful  sorrow, 
as  I  have  heard  say,  she  with  full  great  and 
constant  comfortable  words  besought  his 
Grace  that  he  would,  first  after  God,  re¬ 
member  the  weal  of  his  own  noble  person, 
the  comfort  of  his  realm  and  of  her  .  .  .  over 

256 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


that  how  that  God  had  left  him  yet  a  fair 
prince,  two  fair  princesses;  and  that  God  is 
where  he  was.  .  .  .  Then  the  King  thanked 
her  of  her  good  comfort.  After  that  she  was 
departed  and  come  to  her  own  chamber, 
natural  and  motherly  remembrance  of  that 
great  loss  smote  her  so  sorrowful  to  the  heart, 
that  those  that  were  about  her  were  fain  to 
send  for  the  King  to  comfort  her.” 

We  saw  on  a  Sunday,  in  the  beautiful 
Church  of  St.  Lawrence,  a  dole  of  bread  for 
the  poor,  a  row  of  twelve  goodly  loaves  set  out 
on  a  Tudor  monument  which  is  believed  to 
commemorate  Prince  Arthur,  and  possibly 
to  cover  the  ashes  of  his  boyish  heart,  al¬ 
though  the  body  was  buried  in  Worcester 
Cathedral,  where  his  chantry  stands  at  the 
right  of  the  High  Altar. 

Among  the  tombs  in  the  rich- windowed 
choir  is  one  whose  inscription  reads : 

“Heare  lyethe  the  bodye  of  Ambrozia  Sydney,  iiii 

doughter  of  the  Right  Honourable  Syr  Henry  Sydney, 

Knight  of  the  moste  noble  order  of  the  Garter,  Lord 
© 

President  of  the  Counsell  of  Wales,  etc.  And  of  Ladv 
Mary  his  wyef,  doughter  of  the  famous  Duke  of  North¬ 
umberland,  who  dyed  in  Ludlow  Castell,  ye  22nd  of 
Februarie,  1574.” 

17 


257 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


We  paused  there  a  moment  in  reverence  to 
Sir  Philip  Sidney’s  mother,  “a  full  fair  lady” 
who  lost  her  beauty  by  nursing  Queen  Eliza¬ 
beth,  from  whom  she  took  the  contagion, 
through  an  attack  of  smallpox,  and  afterwards 
“chose  rather  to  hide  herself  from  the  curious 
eyes  of  a  delicate  time  than  come  upon  the 
stage  of  the  world  with  any  manner  of  dis¬ 
paragement.” 

The  last  Lord  Marcher  before  the  Restora¬ 
tion  was  the  Earl  of  Bridgwater,  whose  ap¬ 
pointment  was  most  gloriously  celebrated  by 
the  creation  of  Milton’s  “Comus,”  presented 
on  Michaelmas  Night,  1634,  in  the  Great 
Hall  of  the  castle.  The  first  to  hold  the 
office  —  thenceforth  only  nominal  —  after  the 
Restoration  was  the  Earl  of  Carberry,  whose 
seneschal  was  one  Samuel  Butler,  a  steward 
who  may  or  may  not  have  kept  good  accounts, 
but  who  used  his  pen  to  effective  purpose  in 
writing,  in  a  chamber  over  the  gate,  the  first 
portion  of  “Hudibras.” 

Ludlow  is  the  centre  for  fascinating  excur¬ 
sions.  The  delicious  air  and  most  lovely 
scenery  tempt  one  forth  on  roads  that  run 
between  bird- haunted  banks  fringed  with 
luxuriant  bracken  and  lined  with  all  manner 

258 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


of  trees  to  whose  very  tops  climbs  the  aspiring 
honeysuckle.  The  glint  of  red  berries  from 
the  mountain  ash,  the  drooping  sprays  of  the 
larches,  the  silvery  glimpses  of  far  vistas 
framed  in  leafy  green,  the  spicy  forest  fra¬ 
grances,  the  freshness  and  buoyancy  of  the 
air,  all  unite  to  make  the  spirit  glad.  From 
every  rise  in  the  road  are  views  that  range 
over  a  fair  outspread  of  plain  and  valley, 
rimmed  by  gentle  hills.  All  over  Worcester¬ 
shire  we  looked,  and  into  Wales,  and  up 
through  Salop  to  where  the  Wrekin  smiled 
a  gracious  recognition.  Points  of  special  in¬ 
terest  abound,  —  Haye  Wood,  where  Lady 
Alice,  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Bridgwater,  and 
her  brothers  lost  their  way  and  by  their  little 
adventure  gave  young  Milton  the  suggestion 
for  his  Masque;  St.  Mary’s  Knoll,  once 
crowned  by  a  venerated  image  of  the  Virgin ; 
Oakley  Park,  with  its  Druid  trees ;  the  little 
church  of  Pipe  Aston,  with  its  curious  semi¬ 
cirque  of  Norman  carving  over  the  door; 
Leinthall  church,  overtopped  at  either  end 
by  lofty  yews;  British  fort;  Tudor  mansion ; 
storied  battlefield. 

Our  first  goal  was  Richard’s  Castle  in 
Hereford,  dating  from  the  reign  of  Edward 

259 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


the  Confessor,  —  a  Norman  keep  before  the 
Norman  Conquest.  Nothing  of  that  brave 
erection  is  left  save  a  mound  of  earth  and  a 
bit  of  broken  wall.  Near  by  stands  an  old 
church  with  some  remnants  of  fine  glass  and 
with  the  rare  feature,  in  England,  of  a  de¬ 
tached  bell-tower.  We  lingered  in  the  church 
yard,  looking  out  from  a  massive  recumbent 
slab  that  was  cleft  from  end  to  end,  as  if  the 
impatient  sleeper  could  not  wait  for  the  Arch¬ 
angel’s  trump,  eastward  to  the  Malvern  Hills, 
whose  earthly  blue  melted  as  softly  into  the 
blue  of  the  sky  as  life  melts  into  death.  But 
a  line  of  rooks  flapping  roostward  awoke  us 
to  the  flight  of  time,  and  the  pensive  appeal 
of  that  quiet  spot,  with  its  lichened  crosses 
and  grave-mantling  growths  of  grass  and  ivy, 
was  dispelled  by  a  donkey  who  thrust  his  head 
through  a  green  casement  in  the  hedge  and 
waggled  his  long  ears  at  us  with  a  quizzical 
expression. 

An  excursion  that  could  not  be  foregone, 
however  our  consciences  pricked  us  for  delay, 
was  that  to  Wigmore,  the  once  impregnable 
hold  of  the  Mortimers.  As  we  left  Ludlow, 
we  looked  back  on  the  looming  grey  mass  of 
its  own  still  stupendous  castle  and  were  hardly 

260 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


prepared  to  find  the  rival  fortress  in  such  utter 
desolation  of  decay.  Standing  on  its  sentry 
height,  girdled  with  its  massive  walls,  it  was 
once  a  menace  to  the  English  throne.  Now 
such  towers  as  yet  remain  are  rent  and  ragged. 
Only  a  curtain  of  ivy  guards  the  inner  gate. 
Trees  have  sprung  from  the  dirt- choked  em¬ 
brasures,  and  purple  thistles  grow  rank  in  the 
empty  courts.  Yet  for  all  the  rich  cloaking 
of  vine  and  wall- flower,  all  the  carpeting  of 
moss  and  blossom,  Time  has  not  made  peace 
with  this  grim  ruin.  Something  sullen  and 
defiant  still  breathes  from  those  gigantic  frag¬ 
ments.  Dark  openings  in  the  ground  give 
glimpses  of  stone  passages  and  yawning  dun¬ 
geons  that  must  render  the  place  a  paradise 
for  boys.  Thence  we  drove  to  Wigmore 
Abbey  where  the  Mortimers  lodged  the 
priestly  intercessors  who  had  no  light  task 
to  pray  away  the  sins  of  that  proud  and  ruth¬ 
less  race.  We  found  a  farm  resounding  with 
the  baaing  of  sheep  and  mooing  of  cows  in¬ 
stead  of  with  Latin  chants.  Wrought  into 
the  texture  of  the  grange  itself,  a  weather- 
stained  house  of  stone,  with,  as  we  saw  it,  a 
row  of  decorative  pigeons  perched  on  the 
roof- tree,  are  remnants  of  the  old  carvings 

201 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


and  window  traceries.  At  the  rear,  a  long, 
low  building  of  the  Shropshire  black-and- 
white,  with  a  great  bundle  of  straw  bulging 
from  an  upper  window,  retains  a  fine  arched 
gateway.  Pleached  fruit  trees,  climbing  roses, 
and  purple  clematis  do  their  best  to  console 
the  scene  for  its  lost  pieties.  On  the  home¬ 
ward  route,  by  way  of  yellow  wheat  fields, 
waving  woods,  and  running  water,  we  had 
a  wonderful  view  of  the  Welsh  mountains 
bathed  in  the  opalescent  hues  of  sunset,  a 
divine  lustre  through  which  rang  sweetly  the 
vespers  of  the  thrush,  and  could  hardly  per¬ 
suade  ourselves  that  it  was  from  those  glori¬ 
fied  heights  the  wave  of  war  used  to  rush 
down  to  break  in  blood  upon  the  Marches. 

Yet  even  the  little  round  county  of  Here¬ 
fordshire,  with  its  soft  green  levels,  its  apple 
orchards  and  cider-presses,  its  hop  gardens, 
and  those  broad  fields  where  graze  its  famous 
sheep  and  cattle,  has  tragic  tales  to  tell.  Wig- 
more  Castle,  indeed,  is  over  the  Hereford 
line.  A  few  miles  to  the  northwest  are  the 
ruins  of  Brampton- Bryan  Castle,  which  testi¬ 
fies  to  the  latest  war- anguish  of  these  western 
shires,  the  struggle  to  the  death  between 
Charles  I  and  Parliament.  Here  Lady  Har- 

282 


WIGMORE  ABBEY - GATE  HOUSE  AND  BARN 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


ley  was  besieged  for  over  a  month  by  her 
royalist  neighbour,  Colonel  Lingen,  who  — 
ill-done  for  a  cavalier  —  came  up  against  her, 
in  the  absence  of  her  husband  and  son,  with 
a  force  of  six  hundred  men.  Cheery,  gallant, 
resourceful  while  the  need  lasted,  Lady  Har¬ 
ley  gave  way  when  the  baffled  enemy  had 
withdrawn,  and  wrote  her  son  that  if  the  castle 
must  undergo  another  siege,  she  was  sure  that 
God  would  spare  her  the  seeing  it.  And  hav¬ 
ing  so  written,  she  died  the  following  day.  In 
the  spring  the  royalists  returned  with  cannon 
and  battered  down  the  walls,  burning  and 
plundering.  At  the  end  of  the  long  strife. 
Parliament  awarded  Sir  Robert  Harley,  as 
some  partial  recompense  for  his  sorrows  and 
losses,  the  Lingen  lands,  but  Edward  Harley, 
the  son  of  that  brave,  tender-hearted  mother, 
called  at  once  on  Lady  Lingen  and  presented 
her  with  the  title-deeds.  It  may  be  doubted 
if  all  the  Herefordshire  annals  record  a  nobler 
victory. 

The  Wars  of  the  Roses  were  waged  with 
peculiar  ferocity  in  this  section  of  England. 
The  great  battle  of  Mortimer’s  Cross,  which 
gave  Edward  IV  his  crown,  was  fought  a  little 
to  the  west  of  Leominster.  Here  old  Owen 

263 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


Tudor,  who  had  married  Henry  V’s  French 
Kate,  daughter  and  widow  of  kings,  —  he 
whose  grandson,  Henry  VII,  brought  in  the 
Tudor  line  of  English  sovereigns,  was  taken 
prisoner.  He  was  executed,  with  all  the 
other  prisoners  of  rank,  in  Hereford  market¬ 
place,  and  his  head  was  “set  upon  the  highest 
grice  of  the  market  cross  and  a  mad  woman 
kemped  his  hair  and  washed  awTay  the  blood 
from  his  face,  and  she  got  candles  and  set 
about  him  burning,  more  than  one  hundred. 
This  Owen  Tudor  was  father  unto  the  Earl 
of  Pembroke,  and  had  wedded  Queen  Kath¬ 
erine,  King  Henry  Vi’s  mother,  weening  and 
trusting  always  that  he  should  not  be  be¬ 
headed  till  he  saw  the  axe  and  block,  and 
when  he  was  in  his  doublet  he  trusted  on 
pardon  and  grace  till  the  collar  of  his  red 
velvet  doublet  was  ripped  off.  Then  he  said, 
‘That  head  shall  lie  on  the  stock  that  was 
wont  to  lie  on  Queen  Katherine’s  lap,’  and 
put  his  heart  and  mind  wholly  unto  God,  and 
full  meekly  took  his  death.”1 

Earlier  civil  conflicts,  that  between  Ed¬ 
ward  II  and  his  barons,  and  that  holier  war 

1  “  Gregory ’s  Chronicle.  ”  In  “  Historical  Collections  of  a  Citi¬ 
zen  of  London  in  the  Fifteenth  Century.  ’  ’  Camden  Society:  1876. 

264 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


of  liberty,  won  though  lost,  by  Simon  de 
Montfort  against  his  king  and  prince,  have 
left  graphic  memories  in  Herefordshire.  But 
even  these  strifes  seem  recent  beside  the 
battle-marks  of  Olfa  the  Saxon,  who  built  an 
earthen  dyke,  still  in  fairly  good  preservation, 
from  the  Severn  to  the  Wye,  to  keep  the 
Welshmen  back ;  and  beside  those  thick-set 
British  camps  and  Roman  camps  that  testify 
to  the  stubborn  stand  of  Caractacus  and  his 
Silures  against  the  all-conquering  legions. 

We  were  on  a  peaceful  pilgrimage  and 
could  well  dispense  with  visiting  Coxwall 
Knoll,  close  above  Brampton- Bryan,  where 
Caractacus  met  his  crushing  defeat,  and 
Sutton  Walla,  some  five  miles  to  the  north  of 
Hereford,  where  Offa,  King  of  the  Mercians, 
betrayed  to  assassination  his  guest,  King 
Ethelbert  of  the  East  Angles ;  but  we  ought 
to  have  sought  out  Holm  Lacy,  for  the  sake 
of  the  Sir  Scudamour  of  Spenser’s  “Faery 
Queene,”  and  to  have  visited  Hope  End, 
near  Ledbury,  in  loving  homage  to  Elizabeth 
Barrett  Browning.  And  so  we  might,  had 
it  not  been  for  the  innate  depravity  of  man 
as  exemplified  in  the  dourest  driver  that  ever 
handled  reins.  His  one  aim  throughout  that 

205 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


trip  was  not  to  go  anywhere  we  wished.  He 
would  sometimes  seem  to  hesitate  at  a  parting 
of  the  ways,  but  it  was  only  to  find  out  which 
road  was  our  desire,  when  as  deaf  and  dumb  to 
all  our  protests  as  if  he  knew  only  the  Silurian 
tongue,  as  impervious  to  parasol  pokes  as  if 
he  were  cased  in  Roman  mail,  he  would  take 
the  other.  The  only  comfort  that  came  to 
our  exasperated  souls  was  the  reflection  that 
at  sundown  we  could  dismiss  Sir  Stiffback 
with  his  ill- earned  shillings  and  never  see  his 
iron  phiz  again,  whereas  the  unfortunate 
women  of  his  household,  the  possible  wife, 
sister,  daughter,  would  have  to  put  up  with 
the  unflinching  obduracy  of  that  cross-grained 
disposition  until  he  went  the  way  of  Roger  de 
Mortimer.  But  not  even  this  cromlech  of  a 
coachman,  though  with  the  worst  intentions, 
could  prevent  our  enjoying  the  pastoral 
charm  of  the  quiet  land  through  wdiich  we 
drove,  for  this  county,  as  Fuller  wrote,  “doth 
share  as  deep  as  any  in  the  alphabet  of  our 
English  commodities,  though  exceeding  in 
the  W  for  wood,  wheat,  wool,  and  water.”  As 
for  wood,  we  saw  in  Harewood  Park,  by 
which  our  Clod  of  Wayward  Marl  inadvert¬ 
ently  drove  us,  chestnuts  and  beeches  whose 

266 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


height  and  girth  would  do  credit  to  California ; 
in  point  of  wheat  the  county  is  said  to  be  so 
fertile  that,  for  all  the  wealth  of  cattle,  the  peo¬ 
ple  have  not  time  to  make  their  own  butter 
and  cheese ;  the  wool  was  reckoned  in  Fuller’s 
time  the  finest  of  all  England ;  and  the  sal¬ 
mon-loved  Wye,  which  rises,  like  the  Severn, 
on  the  huge  Plinlymmon  mountain,  flows 
with  many  picturesque  turns  and  “crankling 
winds”  across  the  county,  receiving  the  Lug, 
on  which  Leominster  is  situate,  and  further 
down,  the  Monnow,  which  forms  the  Mon¬ 
mouth  boundary. 

But  if  we  failed  to  find  the  white-rose  bower 
of  Mrs.  Browning’s  childhood,  and  her  classic 


“garden-ground, 

With  the  laurel  on  the  mound, 

And  the  pear-tree  oversweeping 
A  side-shadow  of  green  air.” 

—  does  the  turf  remember  her  Hector  with 
“brazen  helm  of  daffodilies”  and  “a  sword 
of  flashing  lilies  ?”  —  we  were  on  poetic  terri¬ 
tory  in  the  streets  of  Hereford.  She  was  the 
“deare  Mother”  of  the  Elizabethan  John 
Davies,  and  here  Thomas  Traherne,  worthy 
of  the  fellowship  of  Herbert  and  of  Vaughan 

267 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


passed  his  early  years,  a  shoemaker’s  son,  like 
Marlowe  in  another  cathedral  city,  Canter¬ 
bury.  If  we  could  have  seen  Hereford  as  this 
humble  little  lad  saw  it,  it  would  have  been 
a  celestial  vision,  for  truly  he  said:  “Cer¬ 
tainly  Adam  in  Paradise  had  not  more  sweet 
and  curious  apprehensions  of  the  world  than 
I  when  I  was  a  child.”  His  own  description 
of  this  radiant  star  we  so  blindly  inhabit  as  it 
first  dazzled  his  innocent  senses  is  too  ex¬ 
quisite  to  be  passed  over: 

“The  corn  was  orient  and  immortal  wheat  which 
never  should  be  reaped  nor  was  ever  sowrn.  I  thought 
it  had  stood  from  everlasting  to  everlasting.  The  dust 
and  stones  of  the  street  were  as  precious  as  gold ;  the 
gates  were  at  first  the  end  of  the  world.  The  green 
trees  when  I  sawr  them  first  through  one  of  the  gates 
transported  and  ravished  me ;  their  sweetness  and  un¬ 
usual  beauty  made  my  heart  to  leap,  and  almost  mad 
with  ecstacy,  they  were  such  strange  and  wonderful 
things.  The  Men !  O  what  venerable  and  reverend 
creatures  did  the  aged  seem !  Immortal  Cherubim ! 
And  young  men,  glittering  and  sparkling  angels;  and 
maids,  strange  seraphic  pieces  of  life  and  beauty !  Boys 
and  girls  tumbling  in  the  street  were  moving  jewels :  I 
knew  not  that  they  were  born  or  should  die.  But  all 
things  abided  eternally  as  they  were  in  their  proper 
places.  Eternity  was  manifest  in  the  Light  of  the  Day, 
and  something  infinite  behind  everything  appeared, 

268 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


which  talked  with  my  expectation  and  moved  my  de¬ 
sire.  The  City  seemed  to  stand  in  Eden  or  to  be  built 
in  Heaven.” 

If  this  were  the  Hereford  of  the  first  half 
of  the  seventeenth  century,  the  city  has 
dimmed  a  little  since,  yet  we  found  it  a  pleas¬ 
ant  town  enough,  with  the  Wye  murmuring 
beside  it,  and  its  ancient  cathedral  of  heroic 
history  reposing  in  its  midst.  Garrick  was 
born  in  Hereford,  and  poor  Nell  Gwynne, 
and  in  the  north  transept  of  the  cathedral  is 
a  brass  to  John  Philips,  who  endeared  him¬ 
self  to  all  the  county  by  his  poem  on  “  Cyder.” 
We  went  to  see  the  Preaching  Cross  that 
marks  the  site  of  a  monastery  of  the  Black 
Friars,  neighboured  now  by  the  Red  Cross 
Hospital  for  old  soldiers  and  servants.  One 
of  these  beneficiaries,  in  the  prescribed  “fus¬ 
tian  suit  of  ginger  colour,”  eagerly  showed  us 
about  and  was  sorely  grieved  that  we  could 
not  wait  to  hear  his  rambling  chronicle  to  the 
end.  The  rest  of  our  time  in  Hereford  out¬ 
side  our  hostelry  —  the  Green  Dragon,  most 
amiable  of  monsters  —  we  spent  in  the  cathe¬ 
dral,  an  old  acquaintance,  but  so  passing  rich 
in  beauties  and  in  curiosities  that  at  the  end 
of  our  swift  survey  we  were  hardly  more  satis- 

2G9 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


fied  than  at  the  beginning.  We  will  come 
back  to  it  some  time  —  to  the  grave  old 
church  that  has  grown  with  the  centuries  and, 
unabashed,  mingles  the  styles  of  various 
periods,  the  church  in  which  Stephen  was 
crowned  and  Ethelbert  buried;  to  the  cro- 
ziered  bishops  in  their  niches,  the  two  great, 
thirteenth- century  bishops  among  them, 
D’Aquablanca,  the  worst  of  saints  with  the 
loveliest  of  tombs,  and  Cantilupe,  so  godly 
that  he  never  allowed  his  sister  to  kiss  him, 
of  such  healing  virtues  that  even  sick  falcons 
were  cured  at  his  shrine ;  to  the  Knights  Tem¬ 
plars,  mail-clad,  treading  down  fell  beasts; 
to  the  wimpled  dames  with  praying  hands, 
shadowed  by  angel- wings;  to  the  Chapter 
Library  with  its  chained  tomes;  and  to  that 
mediaeval  Majjpa  Mundi  (about  1313)  show¬ 
ing  the  earth  with  its  encircling  ocean,  Eden 
and  Paradise  above,  and  such  unwonted  geo¬ 
graphical  features  sprinkled  about  as  the 
Phoenix,  Lot’s  Wife,  and  the  Burial  Place  of 
Moses. 

Our  surly  coachman  deposited  us  at  Ross, 
the  little  border  town  with  houses  sloping 
from  the  hilltop  to  the  Wye,  while  behind  and 
above  the  mall  rises  a  tall  grey  spire.  Here 

270 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


our  faith  in  human  nature  was  promptly 
restored  by  that  contemplation  of  the  virtues  of 
The  Man  of  Ross  which  even  the  public- house 
signboards  forced  upon  us.  This  John  Kyrle 
so  lauded  by  Pope  was  a  cheery  old  bachelor 
of  modest  income,  the  most  of  which  he  ex¬ 
pended  for  the  town  in  works  of  practical 
benevolence,  planting  elms,  laying  out  walks, 
placing  fountains,  and  caring  for  the  poor. 

“Whose  cause-way  parts  the  vale  with  shady  rows? 

Whose  seats  the  weary  traveler  repose  ? 

Who  taught  that  heaven-directed  spire  to  rise  ? 

‘The  Man  of  Ross,’  each  lisping  babe  replies.” 

But  the  lisping  babes  are  wrong  as  to  this 
last  particular,  for  Kyrle  did  not  build  the 
spire,  although  he  gave  the  church  its  gallery 
and  pulpit. 

At  Ross  we  ought  to  have  taken  to  the 
water,  for  the  scenery  of  the  Lower  Wye,  with 
its  abrupt  cliffs,  rich  woods,  and  smiling 
meadows,  is  one  of  the  prides  of  England,  but 
we  had  run  so  far  behind  our  dates,  by  the 
dear  fault  of  Shropshire,  that  we  went  on  by 
train.  The  rail,  however,  follows  the  river, 
and  we  had  —  or  thought  we  had  —  swift 
glimpses  of  the  romantic  ruins  of  Wilton 

271 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


Castle,  one  of  the  old  Border  keeps,  and  of 
Goodrich  castle,  where  Wordsworth  met  the 
little  maid  of  “We  are  Seven/'  This  valley 
of  the  Wye,  which  was  to  the  poet  Gray  the 
delight  of  his  eyes  and  “the  very  seat  of 
pleasure,”  yields  striking  effects  in  wooded 
crag  and  gorge  at  Symond’s  Yat,  blit  we  en¬ 
joyed  hardly  less  the  tranquil  reaches  of 
green  pasture,  where  the  afternoon  sunshine 
still  lay  so  warm  that  little  groups  of  sheep 
were  cuddled  at  the  foot  of  every  tree.  The 
ancient  town  of  Monmouth,  in  its  nest  of  hills, 
reminded  us  not  merely  of  its  royal  native, 
Henry  Y, 

—  “Ay,  he  was  bom  at  Monmouth, 

Captain  Gower”  — 

but  of  that  twelfth- century  romancer,  Geof¬ 
frey  of  Monmouth,  whose  “History  of  the 
Britons,”  with  its  fluent  account  of  the  doings 
of  hitherto  unheard-of  kings,  especially  Arthur 
the  Giant  Killer  and  his  false  queen  Guanhu- 
mara,  so  scandalised  his  contemporaries  that 
they  did  not  scruple  to  call  him  a  “shameless 
and  impudent  liar”  and  to  report  that  legions 
of  devils  had  been  seen  hovering  over  his  man¬ 
uscript.  About  seven  miles  to  the  southwest 

272 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


of  Monmouth  is  Raglan  Castle,  where  Charles 
I  took  refuge  after  Naseby.  Its  gallant  lord, 
the  Marquis  of  Worcester,  then  in  his  eighty- 
fourth  year,  stood  a  siege  of  ten  weeks,  not 
capitulating  until  the  loyal  little  garrison,  fast 
diminishing,  was  reduced  to  such  extremities 
that  the  horses  ate  their  halters  for  want  of 
forage.  I  had  visited,  some  fifteen  years  be¬ 
fore,  those  war-scarred  towers,  tapestried  with 
marvellous  masses  of  ivy,  and  from  the  win¬ 
dows  of  the  Royal  Apartments  had  looked 
out  on  that  lovely  western  view  in  which  the 
harassed  Stuart  took  solace.  Lord  Herbert, 
son  of  the  staunch  old  royalist,  invented  and 
constructed  a  machine,  the  terror  of  the  peas¬ 
antry,  which  has  a  good  claim  to  be  counted 
the  first  steam-engine.  The  so-called  Yellow 
Tower  was  the  scene  of  his  wizard  craft.  The 
Great  Hall  now  lies  open  to  wind  and  weather, 
and  but  one  wall  of  the  chapel  stands,  its  two 
stone  effigies  peeping  out  from  their  ivy- 
curtained  niches. 

We  quitted  the  train  at  Tintern,  where  our 
stay  was  all  too  short,  notwithstanding  the 
memory  of  tranquil  weeks  spent  there  in  a 
previous  summer.  The  ruins  of  Tintern 
Abbey  are  of  a  peculiarly  austere  and  noble 
IS  273 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


beauty.  Its  foundation  dates  back  to  1131, 
only  three  years  after  the  coming  of  the  Cis¬ 
tercians  into  England.  It  was  the  third  of 
their  English  houses,  which  came  to  number 
nearly  two  hundred.  It  stood  in  its  full  grace, 
the  Gothic  style  just  leaning  toward  the  Deco¬ 
rated,  when  the  Dissolution  struck  its  uses 
from  it  and  left  it  to  gradual  decay.  Roofed 
by  the  blue  skies  of  a  summer  noon,  with 
wooded  hills  looking  in  through  the  unglazed 
mullions  of  the  windows,  or  in  the  glory  of 
the  moonlight,  the  silver  lustre  flooding  empty 
nave  and  silent  cloisters,  and  illuming  with  its 
searching  rays  rare  bits  of  carven  foliage, 
Tintern  wears  perhaps  a  purer  loveliness  in 
its  desolation  than  ever  before.  Our  farewell 
visit  was  paid  in  an  early  morning  hour.  In 
that  freshness  of  the  day,  those  slender  pillars 
and  arches  delicately  wrought  presented  an 
aspect  more  than  ever  grave  and  melancholy. 
There  is  nothing  of  the  grotesque  here,  and 
comparatively  little  of  ornamental  detail  to 
distract  the  mind  from  the  impression  of  the 
whole.  The  rooks  that  peered  over  from 
their  lofty  perch  above  the  great  east  window, 
whose  remaining  traceries  were  etched  in 
shadow  on  the  turf,  and  the  bright-eyed  little 

274 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


red- breasts  that  hopped  fearlessly  about  did 
not,  it  is  true,  observe  the  Cistercian  rule  of 
silence ;  but  the  shining  wings  of  doves  flutter¬ 
ing  from  one  grey  wall  to  another  might  well 
have  been  the  embodied  prayers  of  those 
White  Monks  who  so  often  chanted  matins 
at  the  long-since  fallen  altars. 

We  went  from  the  Abbey  to  the  train.  Still 
the  railroad  followed  the  winding  river.  A 
fleeting  sight  of  the  towering  Wyndcliff  re¬ 
minded  me  of  a  by-gone  afternoon  when,  un¬ 
expectedly  bringing  up  on  a  ramble  at  Moss 
Cottage,  I  undertook,  quite  too  late  for  pru¬ 
dence,  a  solitary  ascent  of  this  inviting  steep. 
From  the  summit  I  looked  out  over  mellow- 
tinted  autumnal  woods  to  the  looping  ribbon 
of  the  Wye,  the  white  cliffs  known  as  the 
Twelve  Apostles  rising  beyond,  and  still  be¬ 
yond  the  sail- bearing  Severn,  with  villages 
and  church- towers  discernible  in  the  far  dis¬ 
tance  and,  best  of  all,  the  rose  of  sunset  glow¬ 
ing  upon  the  face  of  the  Black  Mountains. 
It  was  a  sublime  vision,  but  when  the  western 
flush  had  faded  out  and  I  must  needs  descend 
by  that  ever- darkening  path  which  took  its 
zigzag  course  among  thick  yews  and  down 
slippery  slabs  of  slate,  I  came  to  the  conclu- 

275 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


sion  it  was  not  written  that  my  neck  should 
be  broken  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic. 

We  had  only  an  hour  at  Chepstow,  but  the 
picturesque  river- town  was  not  new  to  us,  and 
the  hour  sufficed  to  revive  our  memories  of 
its  rock-based  old  castle  overhanging  the  Wye, 
the  castle  where  Jeremy  Taylor  was  once  im¬ 
prisoned,  and  its  Norman  church  with  deeply 
recessed  doorway.  At  Chepstow  we  took 
train  for  Newport,  crossing  the  strip  of 
garden- land  that  lies  between  the  Wye,  the 
Gloucestershire  boundary,  and  its  almost 
parallel  stream,  the  Usk.  West  Monmouth 
is  Black  Country,  forming  a  part  of  the  South 
Wales  coal-field,  and  we  were  not  surprised 
to  find  Newport  a  busy  harbour,  grimy  with 
its  exports  of  coal  and  iron.  We  heard  a 
strange  tongue  spoken  all  about  us  and 
realised  that  Monmouthshire,  nominally  Eng¬ 
lish  since  the  time  of  Henry  VIII,  is  still 
largely  Welsh  in  manners  and  in  character. 
The  old  Newport  is  much  obscured  by  the 
new.  The  castle,  where  Simon  de  Montfort 
took  refuge,  is  in  good  part  hidden  behind  a 
flourishing  brewery,  but  the  Church  of  St. 
Woollos,  built  high  upon  Stow  Hill,  still  domi¬ 
nates  the  scene.  This  church  has  a  history 

276 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


even  older  than  its  fine  Norman  architecture, 
for  it  is  told  that  Harold  once  plundered  the 
town,  desecrating  the  original  sanctuary  and 
breaking  open  the  cheeses,  which  he  found 
filled  with  blood.  Then  he  was  aghast  and 
repented,  but  a  month  later,  according  to  the 
monastic  record,  “for  that  wickedness  and 
other  crimes”  he  fell  at  Hastings. 

Our  goal  was  Caerleon,  three  miles  up  the 
Usk,  a  quiet  little  village  that  was  once  the 
capital  of  South  Wales,  once  the  Isca  Silurum 
of  the  Romans,  and  once,  in  the  misty  realm 
of  romance,  that  Caerleon-upon-Usk  wdiere 
Arthur  was  crowned  and  wThere  the  ninth  of 
his  twelve  great  battles  was  fought.  Tenny¬ 
son’s  Lancelot  relates  to  spellbound  listeners 
in  the  Castle  of  Astolat  howr 

“at  Caerleon  had  he  helped  his  lord, 

When  the  strong  neighings  of  the  wild  White  Horse 

Set  every  gilded  parapet  shuddering.” 

But  the  “  Mabinogion,”  that  treasury  of 
fanciful  old  Welsh  tales,  gives,  by  w'ay  of  con¬ 
trast,  a  naive  and  somewhat  gaudy  picture 
of  the  king  enjoying  his  repose : 

“King  Arthur  was  at  Caerlleon  upon  Usk;  and  one 
day  he  sat  in  his  chamber;  and  with  him  were  Owain 

277 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


the  son  of  Urien,  and  Kynon  the  son  of  Clydno,  and 
Kai  the  son  cf  Kyner;  and  Gwenhwyar  and  her  hand¬ 
maidens  at  needlework  by  the  window.  ...  In  the 
center  of  the  chamber,  King  Arthur  sat  upon  a  seat  of 
green  rushes,  over  which  was  spread  a  covering  of 
flame-coloured  satin;  and  a  cushion  of  red  satin 
was  under  his  elbow.  .  .  .  And  the  King  went  to 
sleep.” 

If  the  ghosts  of  the  Second  Augustan  Legion 
could  return  for  an  hour  to  this  their  frontier 
station,  deep  in  the  British  wilds,  they  would 
find  ranged  and  labelled  in  a  neat  museum 
shards  of  their  pottery,  broken  votive  tablets, 
fragments  of  sculptured  figures,  among  them  a 
Medusa  whose  stony  stare  might  seem  to  have 
taken  effect,  urns  whose  ashes  were  long  since 
scattered,  bits  of  mosaic  pavement,  coins, 
lamps,  needles,  hairpins,  waifs  and  strays  of 
their  “unconsidered  trifles.”  But  the  fainter 
wraith  of  King  Arthur  would  discover  no 
more  than  a  weedy  mound  and  hollow  in  a 
ragged  field,  where  autumnal  dandelions  keep 
the  only  glints  of  his  golden  memory.  We 
met  there  an  old  labourer  stooping  beneath 
the  heavy  sack  upon  his  shoulder.  He  told 
us  that  the  mound  was  Arthur’s  Round  Table, 
but  as  for  the  hollow  —  apparently  the  site  of 

278 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


a  Roman  open  amphitheatre  —  he  could  only 
shake  his  grey  head  and  confide:  “They  do 
say  as  was  a  grand  palace  there  long  ago  and 
one  day  it  all  sunk  under,  —  sunk  way  down 
into  the  ground.” 

The  Usk,  which  has  reflected  such  lost 
splendours,  empties  into  the  broad  estuary 
of  the  Severn  a  little  lower  down  than  the  Wye 
which  rejoins  the  greater  river  at  Chepstow. 
The  Severn,  which  has  its  rising  not  two  miles 
from  the  Wye  in  the  Welsh  mountains,  makes 
a  wider  sweep  to  the  east,  crossing  Shropshire, 
Worcester,  and  Gloucester.  Worcester,  in¬ 
deed,  mainly  consists  of  the  Middle  Severn 
valley,  with  ranges  of  low  hills  on  either  side. 
This  fertile  basin  abounds,  like  the  Hereford 
vale  of  the  Wye,  in  apple-orchards  and  pear- 
orchards,  hop-gardens  and  wheat-fields,  but 
the  enterprising  little  shire  has  developed,  too, 
a  number  of  manufacturing  industries.  On 
the  north  it  runs  up  into  the  Black  Country  of 
Staffordshire ;  Dudley,  Stourbridge,  and  Old¬ 
bury  are  murky  with  the  smoke  and  smudge 
of  factory  chimneys.  Glass  is  a  specialty  of 
Stourbridge,  carpets  of  Kidderminster,  salt 
of  Droitwich,  and  needles  and  fishhooks  of 
Redditch.  Nail-making  used  to  be  the  bread 

279 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


and  beer  of  ten  thousand  cottages  at  the  foot 
of  the  Clent  and  Lickey  Hills. 

But  intermingled  with  its  thriving  crafts 
and  trades  is  another  wealth  of  historic  asso¬ 
ciations  and  natural  beauties.  In  the  dense 
woods  which  once  covered  the  county,  hostile 
bands  have  dodged  or  sought  one  another 
from  time  immemorial,  notably  during  the 
Civil  Wars  of  Simon  de  Montfort  and  of  the 
Roses.  Even  so  late  as  the  Parliamentary 
War,  there  remained  forest  enough  to  do 
good  service  to  a  fugitive.  It  was  in  an  oak 
of  Boscobel  Wood,  on  the  Salop  border,  that 
after  the  disastrous  battle  of  Worcester 

“the  younger  Charles  abode 
Till  all  the  paths  were  dim, 

And  far  below  the  Roundhead  rode 
And  hummed  a  surly  hymn.” 

The  points  of  specific  literary  interest  are 
not  many.  Little  St.  Kenelrn  underwent  his 
martyrdom  by  the  Clent  Hills ;  Richard 
Baxter  ministered  for  twenty- two  years  to 
a  rough  flock  in  Kidderminster ;  Samuel 
Butler  was  born  in  Strensham-on- the- Avon ; 
Samuel  Johnson  went  to  school  in  Stour¬ 
bridge;  and  the  Leasowes,  near  by,  was  the 

280 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


home  of  Shenstone,  who  made  it  one  of 
the  most  attractive  estates  in  England.  But 
the  Malvern  Hills  keep  a  great,  dim  memory, 
that  of  the  fourteenth- century  visionary  asso¬ 
ciated  with  the  West  Midland  allegory  of 
“Piers  Plowman.”  We  are  not  sure  of  his 
name,  though  we  speak  of  him  as  Langland ; 
the  rugged,  vigorous  old  poem  in  its  three 
versions  may  yet  be  proved  to  be  of  com¬ 
posite  rather  than  single  authorship ;  we  our¬ 
selves,  though  of  Long  Will’s  discipleship, 
had  not  faith  enough  in  the  personal  tradition 
to  visit  the  reputed  birthplace  at  Cleobury 
Mortimer  in  Shropshire ;  but  on  those  breezy 
slopes  still  seems  to  linger  the  wistful  presence 
of  a  gaunt,  “forwandred”  clerk  who 

“In  a  somer  seson  whan  soft  was  the  sonne, 

On  a  May  momynge  on  Malverne  hulles” 

dreamed  the  Easter  dream,  still  unfulfilled  on 
earth,  of  human  brotherhood. 

These  gracious  heights,  standing 

“Close  as  brother  lea^s  to  brother, 

When  they  press  beneath  the  eyes 
Of  some  father  praying  blessings 
From  the  gifts  of  Paradise,” 

gave  hiding  for  four  years  to  Sir  John  Old- 
castle,  the  genial  Lollard  who  made  merry 

281 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


with  Prince  Hal,  but  would  not  renounce  his 
faith,  and  was  finally  given  up  by  the  over- 
orthodox  young  king  to  the  bishops.  Henry  V 
himself  was  present  at  the  martyrdom,  pecu¬ 
liarly  revolting,  but  the  worst  of  it  all  is  that 
Shakespeare,  consciously  or  unconsciously, 
endorsed  the  Roman  Catholic  caricature  and 
wronged  a  true  and  generous  spirit  in  his  in¬ 
effaceable  portrait  of  Sir  John  Falstaff,  Prince 
Hal’s  “old  lad  of  the  castle.”  It  must  be  that 
Raggedstone  Hill,  which  casts  a  curse  on 
whomsoever  its  shadow  touches,  gloomed  with 
peculiar  blackness  over  the  hunted  knight. 
Its  ominous  shade  is  said  to  have  stolen  on 
Cardinal  Wolsey  and  on  those  royal  fugitives 
of  the  Red  Rose,  Margaret  of  Anjou  and  the 
hapless  young  Prince  Edward. 

From  the  summit  of  Worcester  Beacon  and 
from  other  of  the  higher  Malvern  crests  the 
view  ranges,  on  a  clear  day,  over  some  fifteen 
counties  and  embraces  the  six  momentous 
battlefields  of  Shrewsbury,  Mortimer’s  Cross, 
Edge  Hill,  Worcester,  Evesham  and  Tewkes¬ 
bury,  and  the  three  cathedrals  of  Hereford, 
Worcester,  and  Gloucester,  besides  the  rem¬ 
nants  of  six  great  religious  houses  of  mediaeval 
England,  —  Great  and  Little  Malvern,  Per- 

282 


TEWKESBURY  ABBEY 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


shore,  Evesham,  Deerhurst  and  Tewkesbury. 
Little  Malvern  Priory,  established  in  the 
twelfth  century  by  a  band  of  Benedictine 
monks  from  Worcester  who  sought  the  wilds 
that  they  might  emulate  the  life  of  hermits, 
survives  only  in  fragments,  but  the  church  of 
Great  Malvern  Priory,  an  earlier  outgrowth 
from  Worcester,  keeps  its  Norman  interior, 
with  rich  treasures  of  stained  glass  and 
miserere  carvings.  We  had  passed  through 
the  Yale  of  Evesham  toward  the  close  of  our 
long  Midland  drive  and  seen  the  scant  relics 
of  its  mitred  abbey,  but  we  failed  to  follow  the 
Avon  on  to  Pershore,  one  of  the  richest  and 
most  powerful  of  the  old  monastic  founda¬ 
tions.  Not  only  were  these  monasteries 
planted  in  the  fairest  and  most  fruitful  lands 
of  the  county,  but  a  large  portion  of  Worces¬ 
tershire  was  owned  by  them  and  by  the  neigh¬ 
bouring  abbeys  of  Gloucestershire.  In  all 
this  horde  of  priests  one  has  a  special  claim 
to  literary  remembrance,  —  Layamon,  who 
dwelt  in  the  hamlet  of  Ernley,  near  the 
junction  of  the  Severn  and  the  Stour.  He 
constitutes  an  important  link  in  the  passing 
on  of  the  Arthurian  legend,  which,  first  re¬ 
lated  in  Latin  prose  by  that  entertaining 

283 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


prelate,  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  had  been 
already  rendered  into  French  verse  by  Wace, 
the  professional  chronicler  of  the  Plantag- 
enets.  Layamon  retold  and  amplified  the 
story,  using  the  French  poem  as  his  basis,  but 
aided  by  two  other  works  whose  identity  is 
doubtful. 

“Layamon  these  books  beheld  and  the  leaves  he 
turned.  He  them  with  love  beheld.  Aid  him  God 
the  Mighty !  Quill  he  took  with  his  fingers,  and  wrote 
on  book-skin,  and  the  true  words  set  together,  and  the 
three  books  pressed  into  one.” 

We  could  pay  only  a  flying  visit  to  Malvern 
this  summer,  but  in  other  summers  have  re¬ 
sorted  thither  again  and  again  for  the  refresh¬ 
ment  of  the  blithe  air  and  pure  water  and  of 
walking  on  those  turfy  hills  where  many  a 
grateful  sojourner  has  left  path  or  seat  to  ease 
the  climber’s  way. 

Worcester,  too,  was  familiar  ground,  and 
this  time  we  gave  but  a  few  hours  to  the 
“Faithful  City,”  which  paid  so  dearly  for  its 
steadfast  loyalty  to  Charles  I.  The  un¬ 
speakable  Parliamentarians  proved  nearly  as 
destructive  as  the  Danes,  who,  in  the  ninth 
century  and  again  in  the  eleventh,  had  sacked 
it  with  fire  and  sword.  The  militant  Presby- 

284 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


terians  wreaked  their  piety  most  of  all  upon 
the  Cathedral,  leaving  it  roofless,  its  splendid 
glass  all  shattered,  its  brasses  wrenched  away, 
its  altars  desecrated  and  torn  down.  We 
found  the  red- brick  town  upon  the  Severn 
brisk  and  cheerful,  with  its  proud  shop- 
window  display  of  its  own  products,  from 
the  Royal  Worcester  China  to  Worcestershire 
Sauce;  with  the  deeply  laden  barges  that 
almost  hid  the  river ;  its  lively  hop  market ; 
and  its  grunting  sows,  each  with  her  litter  of 
recalcitrant  little  pigs,  driven  in  a  meandering 
course  through  the  main  street  by  ruddy  boys 
and  girls.  The  cathedral,  whose  memories 
embrace  St.  Dunstan  and  St.  Wulfstan  and 
that  stout-hearted  old  martyr  of  Oxford, 
Bishop  Latimer  —  who  had  himself  once  pre¬ 
sided  at  the  burning  of  a  friar  —  uplifted 
our  hearts  with  its  august  vista  of  nave  and 
choir.  The  crowned  tenant  of  that  choir, 
King  John,  ought  to  be  troubled  in  his  gilded 
rest  by  the  proximity  of  a  Prince  Arthur, 
though  not  the  Arthur  to  whom  he  did  such 
grievous  wrong.  The  best  of  the  cathedral 
is,  to  my  thinking,  the  solemn  grace  of  the 
crypt,  beneath  whose  light- pillared  arches 
stand  about  various  stone  figures  of  rueful 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


countenance.  After  their  centuries  of  sun¬ 
light,  high-niched  on  the  central  tower,  the 
Restorer  has  scornfully  dislodged  them  and 
dungeoned  them  down  here. 

Just  below  Worcester  the  Severn  is  aug¬ 
mented  by  the  Teme,  which  has  valiantly  cut 
its  way  through  the  line  of  western  hills  to 
join  the  court  of  Sabrina,  and  at  Tewkes¬ 
bury,  on  the  Gloucester  border,  it  receives  its 
most  famous  affluent,  Shakespeare’s  Avon. 
Tewkesbury  was  new  to  us,  and  we  lingered 
there  two  days,  wishing  we  might  make  them 
twenty.  As  it  was  we  had  to  forego  the  de¬ 
lightful  trip  on  the  Severn  to  Deerhurst,  an 
old  monastic  town  whose  pre- Norman  church 
is  said  to  be  of  extremely  curious  architecture. 

Tewkesbury  Abbey,  which  outranks  in  size 
ten  of  the  twenty-eight  English  cathedrals,  is 
one  of  the  most  illustrious  churches  in  the 
United  Kingdom.  Unlike  most  of  the  larger 
monastic  establishments,  it  was  under  the 
control  of  a  succession  of  great  families  whose 
deeds  and  misdeeds  form  no  small  part  of  the 
history  of  England.  Fitz-Hamon,  kin  to  the 
Conqueror,  swept  away  what  buildings  of 
the  old  Saxon  abbey  he  may  have  found  there, 
and  erected  the  magnificent  Norman  church 

286 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


which  still  awes  the  beholder.  The  ashes  of 
Fitz-Hamon,  who  died  in  1107,  rest  near  the 
High  Altar.  The  next  lord  of  Tewkesbury  to 
be  buried  in  the  Abbey  was  Gilbert  de  Clare, 
one  of  the  signers  of  Magna  Charta.  The 
name  of  his  father,  Richard  de  Clare,  headed 
the  list,  and  one  of  the  seven  copies  of  the 
Great  Charter  was  deposited  in  the  Abbey. 
Every  lord  of  Tewkesbury  after  Gilbert  de 
Clare  was  interred  in  this  church,  which,  for 
the  next  two  hundred  and  fifty  years,  until 
the  lordship  of  Tewkesbury  was  absorbed 
into  the  Crown,  grew  ever  more  splendid  with 
costly  monuments.  The  widow  of  Gilbert 
de  Clare  married  the  brother  of  Henry  III, 
Richard,  Duke  of  Cornwall,  but  although  she 
thus  became  a  countess  of  many  titles  and  one 
of  the  first  ladies  of  the  land,  she  asked,  in 
dying,  to  be  buried  beside  the  husband  of  her 
youth  in  Tewkesbury.  To  this  her  second 
husband  would  not  agree,  but  he  was  mag¬ 
nanimous  enough  to  send  her  poor,  homesick 
heart  back  to  the  Abbey  in  a  silver  vase, 
which  was  duly  placed  in  Earl  Gilbert’s  mar¬ 
ble  mausoleum. 

The  De  Clares  of  Tewkesbury,  Earls  of 
Gloucester  and  Hereford,  were  a  warrior  race. 

287 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


The  second  Gilbert,  called  the  Red  Earl, 
fought  both  with  Simon  de  Montfort,  and 
against  him,  and  the  third  Gilbert,  his  son, 
fell  at  Bannockburn.  By  his  early  death  the 
lordship  of  Tewkesbury  passed  from  the  De 
Clares,  who  had  held  it  for  nearly  a  century, 
to  the  young  earl’s  brother-in-law,  Hugh  le 
Despencer.  This  new  Earl  of  Gloucester 
had  succeeded  Piers  Gaveston  in  the  perilous 
favour  of  Edward  II.  When  Roger  de  Mor¬ 
timer,  by  the  unhallowed  aid  of  Queen  Isabel, 
triumphed  over  the  king,  the  elder  Despencer, 
a  man  of  ninety,  was  hanged  at  Bristol,  and 
his  son,  Hugh  le  Despencer,  crowned  with 
nettles,  was  swung  from  a  gibbet  fifty  feet 
high,  in  a  hubbub  of  mockeries  and  rejoicings, 
at  Hereford.  His  widow  collected  the  scat¬ 
tered  quarters  of  his  body,  exposed  in  various 
towns,  and  interred  them  in  the  Abbey  under 
a  richly  carved  and  coloured  monument. 
The  Despencers,  though  no  longer  Earls  of 
Gloucester,  held  the  lordship  of  Tewkesbury 
for  wellnigh  another  hundred  years,  cherish¬ 
ing  and  beautifying  the  fabric  of  the  church 
and  adding  lavishly  to  its  memorials  of  bronze 
and  marble  and  to  its  treasure  of  chalices, 
copes,  and  jewels. 


288 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


Early  in  the  fifteenth  century  the  male  line 
of  the  Despencers  became  extinct,  and  the 
Lady  Isabel,  sister  of  the  last  Lord  Despencer, 
succeeded  to  the  ecclesiastical  honours  of  the 
family.  Married  in  the  Abbey  at  the  age  of 
eleven  to  Richard  Beauchamp,  Earl  of  Wor¬ 
cester,  she  was  widowed  ten  years  later  and 
found  her  solace  in  building  an  exquisite 
chapel,  known  as  the  Warwick  Chantry,  in 
her  husband’s  memory.  Her  second  husband, 
cousin  to  the  first,  was  Richard  Beauchamp, 
Earl  of  Warwick,  whom  she  commemorated 
in  the  still  more  elaborate  Beauchamp  Chapel 
at  Warwick;  but  she  herself  chose  to  lie  at 
Tewkesbury.  Her  daughter  married  War¬ 
wick  the  King  maker  and  became  the  mother 
of  two  fair  girls  of  most  pathetic  story.  The 
elder,  Isabel,  was  wedded  to  George,  Duke 
of  Clarence,  brother  of  Edward  III,  —  “false, 
fleeting,  perjur’d  Clarence,’’  —  who  is  sup 
posed  to  have  been  murdered  in  the  Tower 
through  the  agency  of  his  brother  Richard  — 
drowned,  the  whisper  went,  in  a  butt  of  Malm¬ 
sey  wine.  A  fortnight  earlier  his  wife  and  an 
infant  child  had  died,  probably  of  poison.  A 
son  and  daughter  survived,  who,  for  the  royal 
blood  that  flowed  in  their  veins,  were  regarded 
19  239 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


with  uneasiness  by  the  Tudor  kings  and  ul¬ 
timately  sent  to  the  block.  The  daughter, 
Margaret  Plantagenet,  superintended  the  ed¬ 
ucation  of  the  Princess  Mary,  and  was  once 
described  by  Henry  VIII  himself  as  “the  most 
saintly  woman  in  England.”  But  she  was  the 
mother  of  Cardinal  Pole,  who  had  angered 
the  tyrant  and  was  on  the  Continent  out  of 
his  reach ;  so  this  reverend  and  gracious  lady, 
at  the  age  of  sixty-eight,  had  her  stately  head 
clumsily  hacked  off  by  a  prentice  executioner 
on  Tower  Hill,  where  her  innocent  brother 
had  perished  forty- two  years  before.  The 
second  daughter  of  the  Countess  Isabel  had 
an  even  more  pitiful  life  than  her  sister’s,  for 
her  first  husband  was  Prince  Edward,  the  last 
Lancastrian,  and  then,  after  he  had  been 
foully  slain,  she  strangely  accepted  the  hand 
of  one  of  his  murderers,  Richard  of  Glouces¬ 
ter,  the  worst  of  the  Yorkists,  by  whom  she 
was  soon,  it  would  appear,  coolly  put  out 
of  the  world.  A  favourite  saying  of  the 
county,  probably  having  reference  to  the 
extraordinary  number  and  wealth  of  its 
religious  houses,  runs:  “As  sure  as  God  is 
in  Gloucestershire,”  but  one  can  hardly  read 
these  tragedies  of  Tewkesbury  without  feel- 

290 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


ing  that  the  Devil  has  been  no  infrequent 
sojourner  there. 

The  lamentable  Wars  of  the  Roses,  which 
had  drenched  England  with  blood,  threw  up 
their  last  red  spray  against  the  Abbey.  The 
resolute  Queen  Margaret  and  her  son  had 
attempted,  with  an  army  raised  by  the  Duke 
of  Somerset,  to  get  possession  of  Gloucester, 
but  they  found  it  already  held  by  the  Yorkists 
and  hastened  on  to  Tewkesbury.  Still  weary 
from  their  forced  march,  they  were  attacked 
by  Edward  at  break  of  a  summer  dawn  (1471) 
while  the  monks  were  chanting  matins  in  the 
Abbey,  and  sustained  a  signal  defeat.  The 
place  of  slaughter  is  still  known  as  Bloody 
Meadow.  The  Duke  of  Somerset,  with  a 
fewT  knights  and  squires,  took  refuge  within 
the  sacred  walls,  but  Edward  and  his  fol¬ 
lowers,  hot  for  vengeance,  rushed  in  to  slay 
them  even  there.  The  abbot,  who  had  just 
been  celebrating  mass,  came  from  the  altar 
and,  holding  the  consecrated  host  high  in  his 
hands,  stood  between  the  furious  Yorkists 
and  their  prey.  The  war- wrath  was  for  the 
moment  stayed,  and  EdwTard  gave  his  word 
to  respect  the  peace  of  the  sanctuary.  But 
after  a  service  of  thanksgiving,  the  blood- 

291 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


anointed  king  and  kis  fierce  nobles  withdrew 
to  a  house  hard  by,  where  that  unhappy 
younger  Edward,  the  legitimate  heir  to  the 
throne,  was  brought  a  defenceless  prisoner 
into  their  presence,  insulted,  assailed,  and 
slain.  The  rumour  went  that  the  king  him¬ 
self  had  with  his  gauntleted  hand  struck  the 
royal  youth  across  the  mouth,  and  in  an  in¬ 
stant  the  others,  like  wild  beasts,  were  upon 
him,  Richard  of  Gloucester  in  the  front.  It 
is  believed  that  the  mangled,  boyish  body  was 
buried  in  the  Abbey  under  the  central  tower. 

But  while  the  lords  of  Tewkesbury  stormed 
through  their  brief  careers,  coming  one  after 
another  to  lie,  battle-bruised,  stabbed,  head¬ 
less,  quartered,  even  with  the  halter-mark 
about  the  neck,  within  the  holy  hush  of  the 
great  church,  its  Benedictine  monks  went  on 
a  quiet  way,  tilling  the  soil,  writing  glosses, 
copying  service-books,  chanting  prayers,  ex¬ 
ercising  a  large  hospitality  and  a  larger  charity. 
At  the  Dissolution,  the  townspeople,  who  had 
from  time  immemorial  used  the  nave  as  their 
parochial  church,  bought  the  choir  and  chapels 
from  Henry  VIII,  so  that  this  noble  structure, 
so  significant  in  English  story,  escaped  the  fate 
of  Furness,  Tintern,  and  the  many  more. 

292 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


We  had  ourselves  a  little  difficulty  in  getting 
beyond  the  nave.  We  had  gone  in  an  hour 
before  service  on  a  Sunday  evening,  hoping 
to  be  allowed  to  walk  around  the  choir,  but 
we  incurred  scathing  rebuke  from  a  red- 
haired  verger,  who  had  practised  like  elo¬ 
quence  on  Sunday  automobile  parties  until 
his  flow  of  denunciation  was  Hebraic.  We 
gave  way  at  once,  expressed  due  contrition, 
and  meekly  sat  down  to  wait  for  evensong. 
Whereupon,  after  furtively  scrutinising  us 
from  behind  one  pillar  after  another,  he  cau¬ 
tiously  approached  and  with  searching  little 
blue  eyes  severely  inquired  if  we  really  in¬ 
tended  to  stay  for  the  service,  —  “all  through 
the  sermon,  ye  understand;  not  just  for  the 
music.”  Our  reply  so  raised  us  in  his  opinion 
that  he  actually  took  us  on  the  rounds,  prov¬ 
ing  an  intelligent  and  even  jocose  conductor, 
and  we,  for  our  part,  heard  the  sermon  to  the 
very  end,  not  daring  to  stir  from  our  places 
until  the  last  note  of  “Milton’s  organ”  had 
died  away. 

Many  visitors  come  to  this  attractive  old 
town,  with  its  timbered  houses  and  pleasant 
river- walks,  for  the  sake  of  “John  Halifax, 
Gentleman.”  The  scenes  of  Mrs.  Craik's 

293 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


tender  romance,  Abel  Fletcher’s  dwelling,  the 
mill  on  the  Avon,  the  tannery,  the  remains  of 
the  famous  hedge,  the  garden  where  the  two 
lads  talked,  are  pointed  out  as  soberly  and 
simply  as  that  ancient  house  in  Church  Street 
whose  floor  is  said  still  to  keep  the  stain  of 
princely  blood,  or  the  cross  where  the  Duke 
of  Somerset  and  his  companions,  dragged 
from  the  shelter  of  the  Abbey  in  violation  of 
the  king’s  own  promise,  were  beheaded. 

But  the  Severn,  with  ever-broadening  flow, 
a  tidal  river  now  that  fills  and  shallows  twice 
a  day,  bears  onward  to  the  sea.  Her  course 
lies  for  a  while  through  orchards  and  wheat- 
fields.  The  Cots  wolds,  separating  the  Severn 
valley  from  the  basin  of  the  Thames  and  con¬ 
stituting  the  bulk  of  Gloucestershire,  rise  in 
billowy  outlines  on  the  east  and,  presently, 
Dean  Forest,  one  of  the  few  remaining  patches 
of  England’s  formerly  abundant  woods,  up¬ 
lifts  its  “broad  and  burly  top”  on  the  west. 
The  earth  beneath  those  oaks  and  beeches 
has  hoards  of  mineral  wealth,  and  furnaces 
are  scattered  through  the  forest  glades.  At 
Gloucester  the  Severn  divides,  that 

“with  the  more  delight 

She  might  behold  the  towne  of  which  she’s  wondrous  proud.” 

294 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 

And  a  fine  old  town  it  is,  still  keeping,  in  its 
four  right-angled  streets,  the  original  Roman 
plan.  Large  vessels  can  make  their  way  up 
the  Severn  as  far  as  Gloucester,  which  Eliza¬ 
beth,  to  Bristol’s  neighbourly  disgust,  char¬ 
tered  as  a  seaport,  though  the  Berkeley  Canal, 
opened  in  1827,  is  now  the  regular  channel. 
The  cathedral  stands  upon  ground  hallowed 
since  the  seventh  century.  This  building,  for 
all  the  solemn  grandeur  of  its  Norman  nave, 
is  of  most  interest,  from  an  architectural  point 
of  view,  because  of  its  gradual  development 
of  the  Perpendicular  style,  gloriously  mani¬ 
fest  in  choir  and  cloister.  Its  masons  seem 
to  have  been  particularly  ingenious,  for  the 
building  abounds  in  original  and  fanciful 
features  of  which  the  Whispering  Gallery  is 
only  an  example.  Its  martyr  is  John  Hooper, 
Bishop  of  Gloucester  and  Worcester.  One 
of  Mary’s  earliest  victims,  he  was  sent  from 
London  back  to  Gloucester,  where  he  was 
greatly  beloved,  to  be  burned  before  the  eyes 
of  his  own  flock.  Many  royal  prayers  have 
been  murmured  beneath  these  vaulted  roofs, 
and  many  royal  feasts  of  Severn  salmon  and 
lamprey-pie  held  in  the  grey  city.  The 
Saxon  kings  were  much  at  Gloucester;  Wil- 

295 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


liam  the  Conqueror  spent  his  Yule-tides  here 
whenever  he  could,  and  here,  in  the  chapter 
house,  he  ordered  the  compilation  of  Domes¬ 
day  Book;  Rufus,  Henry  I,  Henry  II,  and 
John  often  visited  the  town,  and  Henry  III, 
as  a  boy  of  ten,  was  crowned  in  the  cathedral. 
Parliaments  were  held  in  Gloucester  by  Ed¬ 
ward  I,  Richard  II,  Henry  IV,  and  Henry  Y, 
and  from  Gloucester  Richard  III,  with  whom 
murder  had  grown  to  be  a  habit,  is  supposed 
to  have  sent  secret  orders  to  the  Tower  for  the 
smothering  of  his  little  nephews.  In  a  side- 
chapel  is  the  tomb  of  Robert,  Duke  of  Nor¬ 
mandy,  eldest  son  of  the  conqueror.  The 
effigy,  of  Irish  oak,  is  so  instinct  with  force 
and  vigour  in  its  only  half  recumbent  posture 
that  the  iron  screen  seems  really  necessary  to 
hold  the  Norman  down.  But  the  royal  burial 
that  made  the  fortunes  of  the  cathedral  was 
that  of  the  wretched  Edward  II,  whose  cano¬ 
pied  tomb  in  the  choir  became  a  favourite 
shrine  of  pilgrimage. 

Still  the  Severn,  now  with  a  burden  of 
heavily  freighted  barges,  a  mighty  flood  that 
has  left  more  than  one  hundred  miles  behind 
the  tiny  pool,  three  inches  deep,  in  which  it 
rose,  sweeps  on,  past  the  stern  walls  of  Berke- 

296 


COUNTIES  OF  THE  SEVERN  VALLEY 


ley  Castle,  where  Edward  II  was  horribly 
done  to  death,  toward  the  Somerset  boundary. 
Here  it  receives  the  waters  of  the  lower  Avon, 
on  which  the  great  port  of  Bristol  stands,  and 
so  the  proud  Sabrina  leads  her  retinue  of 
streams  into  the  Bristol  Channel, 

“Supposing  then  herself  a  sea-god  by  her  traine.” 


207 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


THE  three  southwestern  counties  of  Eng¬ 
land,  Somerset,  Devon,  and  Cornwall, 
reach  out,  like  the  hearts  of  their 
sons,  into  the  wild  Atlantic.  Many  a  West¬ 
ward  Ho  adventure  was  sped  from  Bristol, 
Bideford,  Plymouth,  Dartmouth,  and  even 
from  Topsham,  which  long  served  as  the 
port  of  Exeter.  The  far-sea  Elizabethan 
sailors  and  their  dauntless  commanders, 
those  “Admirals  All”  whose  praises  a  living 
poet  of  these  parts,  Henry  Newbolt,  has  sung, 
came  largely  from  this  corner  of  England. 
The  father  of  Sir  Francis  Drake  was  a 
Tavistock  tar.  That  dreamer  of  illimitable 
dreams.  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  was  born  in 
the  little  Devon  village  of  East  Budleigh. 
Another  Devon  village,  familiar  to  Raleigh’s 
boyhood,  Ottery  St.  Mary,  is  the  native  place 
of  Coleridge,  whose  immortal  sea- ballad 
came  into  being  just  over  the  Somerset 
border,  in  those  radiant  days  when  he  and 

298 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


Wordsworth,  two  young  poets  in  the  fulness 
of  their  friendship  and  the  freshness  of  their 
inspiration,  wrould  go  wandering  together, 
from  their  homes  in  Nether  Stowey,  off  on 
the  Quantock  Hills,  —  days  commemorated 
by  Wordsworth  in  “  The  Prelude.” 

“Upon  smooth  Quantock’s  airy  ridge  we  roved, 
Unchecked  we  loitered  ’mid  her  sylvan  courts; 

Thou  in  bewitching  words,  with  happy  heart. 

Didst  chant  the  vision  of  that  Ancient  Man, 

The  bright-eyed  Mariner.” 


My  first  view  of  the  Quantocks  was  had, 
some  years  ago,  from  Exmoor.  Coming 
through  North  Devon,  we  had  been  walking 
for  hours,  knee- deep  in  heather,  over  that 
high,  rolling  moorland  where  the  red  deer 
still  run  wild.  The  pollen  rose  in  clouds 
about  our  heads.  Black-faced  sheep  and 
white- tailed  rabbits  and  startled,  flurrying 
heath-cocks  shared,  but  did  not  break,  the 
rapture  of  that  solitude.  Bell-heather  and 
rose-heather  and  white  heather  mingled  their 
hues,  at  a  little  distance,  in  a  rippling  sea  of 
purple.  We  lay  down  in  it,  and  the  fragrant 
sprays  closed  warm  about  us,  while  the  soft 
sky  seemed  almost  to  touch  our  faces.  We 

299 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


were  supremely  happy  and  we  hoped  that  we 
were  lost.  We  had  long  been  out  of  sight  of 
human  habitation,  but  our  compass  served 
us  better  than  we  wished,  and  when,  with  a 
covert  sense  of  disappointment,  though  the 
sun  was  red  on  the  horizon,  we  came  at  last 
upon  a  woman  and  child  gathering  whortle¬ 
berries  in  a  dimple  of  the  moor,  we  learned 
that  we  were,  as  we  should  have  been,  in  the 
heart  of  the  Lorna  Doone  country. 

All  lovers  of  Blackmore’s  delectable  ro¬ 
mance  remember  that  its  modest  hero,  John 
Ridd,  of  the  parish  of  Oare,  was  a  Somerset 
man.  “Zummerzett  thou  bee’st,  Jan  Ridd, 
and  Zummerzett  thou  shaft  be.”  But  the 
Doone  glen,  which  actually  was,  in  the  latter 
part  of  the  seventeenth  century,  the  hold  of  a 
marauding  band  of  outlaws,  lies  on  Badge¬ 
worthy  Water,  a  part  of  the  Devon  boundary. 
We  ate  our  handful  of  whortleberries  in 
Devon,  but  soon,  following  directions,  found 
ourselves  on  the  brow  of  a  steep  incline, 
peering  over  upon  a  farmhouse,  known  as 
Lorna’s  Bower,  in  the  valley  below.  Scram¬ 
bling  down  the  declivity  as  best  we  might, 
we  crossed  the  Badgeworthy  by  means  of  a 
log  and  a  hand-rail,  climbed  a  fence  inhos- 

800 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


pitably  placed  at  the  end  of  this  rude  bridge, 
and  thus  made  unceremonious  entrance  into 
Somerset.  They  were  gruff  of  speech  at 
Lorna’s  Bower,  but  kind  of  heart,  and  treated 
the  belated  wanderers  well,  feasting  us  on 
the  customary  ham  and  eggs,  with  a  last  taste 
of  Devonshire  cream,  and  giving  us  the  warm 
corner  of  the  settle  by  the  great,  peat- burning 
fireplace.  A  sheepskin  waistcoat,  with  the 
wool  yet  on,  lay  across  the  rheumatic  knees 
of  our  host,  and  hams  and  sides  of  bacon 
dangled  from  the  rafters  overhead. 

According  to  the  saying  “It  always  rains 
on  Exmoor,”  the  next  morning  broke  in 
storm,  and  we  made  slow  progress  under  the 
rain  and  over  the  mud  along  the  Badge¬ 
worthy.  All  our  path  was  a  Waterslide,  yet 
we  came  at  last  to  the  Doone  valley,  where 
tumbled  heaps  of  stone  mark  the  site  of  the 
felons’  houses.  Foxglove  and  bracken  and 
heather  would  have  whispered  us  the  gossip 
of  the  place,  but  a  sudden  spurt  of  especially 
violent  rain  drove  us  on  to  a  shepherd’s  hut 
for  refuge.  Two  sportsmen,  booted  and 
spurred,  with  their  horses  saddled  in  the  shed, 
all  ready  to  mount  and  ride  if  the  Exmoor 
hunt  should  sweep  that  way,  were  there  be- 

S01 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 

fore  us.  One  of  them  told  us  that  his  own 
house  had  the  dints  of  the  Doones’  terrible 
blows  on  one  of  its  oak  doors.  As  the 
weather  had  gone  from  bad  to  worse,  we 
abandoned  our  walking  trip,  bestowed  our¬ 
selves  in  a  creakity  cart,  the  only  vehicle 
there  obtainable,  and  drove  past  the  little 
Oare  church,  where  John  and  Lorna  were 
so  tragically  wedded,  over  “Robbers’ 
Bridge,”  and  on  to  the  top  of  Oare  Hill. 
Here  we  paused  for  a  memorable  view  of  the 
rain-silvered  landscape,  with  Dunkery  Beacon 
glimmering  above.  On  through  blurred  pic¬ 
tures  of  beautiful  scenery  we  went,  into  the 
village  of  Porlock,  sweet  with  roses,  and 
plunging  down  Porlock  Hill,  we  held  on  our 
gusty  way  to  Minehead.  The  hostelries  of 
this  favourite  watering-place  being  full,  we 
pushed  on  by  an  evening  train  to  Taunton,  a 
fair  town  of  heroic  history.  In  the  stormy 
times  of  Charles  I,  it  was  twice  gallantly 
defended  by  Admiral  Blake,  himself  a  son  of 
Somerset,  against  the  cavalier  forces.  Forty 
years  later,  when  the  unpopular  James  II 
had  succeeded  to  his  brother’s  throne,  Taun¬ 
ton  frankly  embraced  the  perilous  cause  of 
the  Duke  of  Monmouth,  welcoming  him 

302 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


with  joyous  ceremonies.  In  Taunton  mar¬ 
ket-place  he  was  proclaimed  king,  and  from 
Taunton  he  issued  his  royal  proclamations. 
The  Duke  was  utterly  defeated  at  Sedge- 
moor,  three  miles  to  the  east  of  Bridgewater, 
in  what  Macaulay  designates  as  “the  last 
fight  deserving  the  name  of  a  battle  that  has 
been  fought  on  English  ground.”  The 
simple  Somerset  folk  who  had  followed  the 
banners  of  Monmouth  were  punished  with 
pitiless  severity.  The  brutal  officers  made 
a  jest  of  the  executions.  A  range  of  gibbets, 
with  their  ghastly  burdens,  crossed  the  moor, 
but  Taunton  was  the  especial  victim  of  the 
royal  vengeance.  A  hundred  prisoners  were 
put  to  death  there  by  Kirke  and  his  “lambs,” 
and  wTellnigh  another  hundred  hanged  by 
such  process  of  law  as  was  embodied  in 
Jeffrey’s  “Bloody  Assize.” 

But  we  would  not  linger  in  Taunton,  — 
no,  not  even  for  the  sake  of  its  gentle  Eliza¬ 
bethan  poet,  Samuel  Daniel,  nor  would  we 
stay  our  journey  for  trips  to  the  places  of 
varied  interest  on  either  side.  A  little  to  the 
southwest  is  AVellington,  which  gave  The 
Iron  Duke  his  title.  Going  north  from  there 
one  would  come  soon  to  Milverton,  the  birth- 

303 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 

place  of  Dr.  Thomas  Young,  that  ingenious  lin¬ 
guist  who  first  began  to  read  the  riddle  of  the 
Sphinx;  for  he  had  deciphered  some  half 
dozen  of  the  Egyptian  hieroglyphics  in  ad¬ 
vance  of  Champollion’s  great  announcement. 
A  few  miles  further  to  the  north  is  Combe 
Flory,  the  pleasant  parsonage  which  Sidney 
Smith  made  so  gay,  even  binding  his  books, 
and  theological  books  at  that,  in  brightest 
colours.  To  get  a  tropical  effect,  and  to  hoax 
his  guests,  he  hung  oranges  from  his  garden 
shrubs,  and  to  gratify  a  lady  who  hinted  that 
deer  would  ornament  the  little  park,  he  fitted 
out  his  two  donkeys  —  who  doubtless  had 
their  opinion  of  him  and  of  his  doings  —  with 
branching  antlers,  and  stationed  them  before 
the  windows  for  a  pastoral  effect.  Well 
away  to  the  east  of  Taunton  is  Ilchester,  the 
birthplace  of  that  illustrious  thirteenth- cen¬ 
tury  friar,  Roger  Bacon,  a  necromancer  to  his 
own  generation,  and  a  pioneer  in  scientific 
method  to  ours ;  and  near  by  Ilchester  is 
Odcombe,  where  Tom  Coryatt,  stoutest- 
soled  of  travellers,  was  born.  He  claimed 
to  have  walked,  between  May  and  October 
of  1608,  no  less  than  nineteen  hundred  and 
seventy- five  miles  over  the  continent  of 

S04 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


Europe,  and  had  just  achieved  a  pilgrimage 
to  Jerusalem  and  a  call  on  the  Great  Mogul 
when,  under  the  eastern  stars,  he  died. 
England  profited  by  his  travels  in  the  enter¬ 
taining  volume  commonly  known  as  Coryatt’s 
“  Crudities,”  as  well  as  in  that  foreign  elegance 
of  table-forks  which  he  is  said  to  have 
introduced. 

A  mightier  spell  than  any  of  these  was 
upon  us,  the  spell  of  Glastonbury,  but  I  do 
not  know  why  we  did  not  give  a  few  hours 
to  Athelney,  which  lay  directly  in  our  route. 
It  was  here,  on  an  alder-forested  island  in  a 
waste  of  fens  and  marshes,  at  the  confluence 
of  the  Parrett  and  the  Tone,  that  King  Alfred 
took  shelter  when  the  Danes  had  overrun  the 
land.  Here  he  lost  that  “Alfred’s  Jewel” 
which  is  now  the  treasure  of  the  Ashmolean 
Museum  in  Oxford ;  here  this  otherwise 
impeccable  monarch  burned  the  cakes ;  and 
from  here  he  made  such  successful  sallies 
against  the  enemy  that  he  delivered  England 
and  regained  his  throne. 

The  county  of  Somerset,  a  land  of  broad, 
green  valleys  enclosed  by  rugged  ranges  of 
hill  and  upland,  has  been  compared  in  form 
to  an  arm  slightly  bent  about  the  eastern 
20  305 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


and  southern  shores  of  Bristol  Channel. 
The  river  Parrett  crosses  it  at  the  elbow, 
dividing  it  into  a  southern  section,  —  moors, 
bogs,  mountains,  with  the  deep  vale  of  the 
river  Tone  —  and  a  northern  part,  larger 
and  more  populous,  but  hardly  less  broken. 
Above  the  Parrett,  and  almost  parallel  with 
it,  runs  the  river  Brue,  draining  that  once 
vast  peat  swamp  known  as  the  Brent  Marshes. 
Glastonbury  now  stands  on  the  north  bank 
of  the  Brue,  but  at  some  remote  period  was 
islanded  in  the  midst  of  the  river.  The 
Britons  —  if  the  wise  say  true  —  called  it 
The  Appletree  Isle,  or  Avalon,  —  a  name 
caught  up  in  the  golden  meshes  of  Arthurian 
romance.  The  wounded  king  but 

“passes  to  the  Isle  Avilion, 

He  passes  and  is  heal’d  and  cannot  die.” 

The  Britons  in  their  heathen  days  had 
dreamed  of  a  fairyland  where  death  and 
sorrow  entered  not,  the  Celtic  Tir-na-n’Og, 
an  Island  of  Immortal  Youth  hid  somewhere 
in  the  flushed,  mysterious  west,  and  the 
Christian  faith,  that  came  so  early  to  Glaston¬ 
bury,  did  not  destroy  but  gathered  to  itself 
the  wistful  hope,  so  that  the  site  of  one  of  the 

5GG 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


earliest  churches  in  England  became  the 
centre  of  strangely  blended  legends.  It  was 
in  the  Isle  of  Avalon,  according  to  Geoffrey 
of  Monmouth,  that  the  sword  Excalibur  was 
forged,  and  after  Arthur  had  passed  from 
mortal  ken,  he  was  not  dead,  but  still,  through 
the  waiting  centuries, 


“Mythic  Uther’s  deeply  wounded  son 
In  some  fair  space  of  sloping  greens 
Lay,  dozing,  in  the  vale  of  Avalon, 

And  watched  by  weeping  queens.” 

Yet  the  mediaeval  voices,  that  we  would 
gladly  believe  more  simply  than  we  may, 
tell  us  that  Arthur  was  buried  at  Glaston¬ 
bury  in  a  sarcophagus  hollowed  out  of  the 
trunk  of  an  oak,  that  the  penitent  Guinevere 
was  laid  at  his  feet,  that  the  skeletons  were 
uncovered  and  removed  to  the  church  in  the 
reign  of  Henry  II,  and  were  seen  by  so  sane  a 
witness  as  Leland  so  late  as  the  middle  of 
the  sixteenth  century.  But  in  King  Arthur, 
death  is  life;  and  not  his  reputed  grave,  nor 
the  giant  bones  folk  wondered  at,  nor  the 
golden  lock  of  Guinevere  that  crumbled  at  a 
monk’s  too  eager  clutch,  could  shake  the 
faith  in  his  second  coming.  Malory,  writing 

307 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


in  the  fifteenth  century,  illustrates  even  in  his 
half  denial  the  persistency  of  that  expecta¬ 
tion  : 

“  Yet  some  men  say  in  many  parts  of  England  that 
King  Arthur  is  not  dead,  but  had  by  the  will  of  our 
Lord  Jesu  into  another  place,  and  men  say  that  he 
shall  come  again,  and  he  shall  win  the  holy  cross.  I 
will  not  say  it  shall  be  so,  but  rather,  I  will  say,  — 
here  in  this  world  he  changed  his  life,  but  many  men 
sav  that  there  is  written  upon  his  tomb  this  verse: 
Hie  jacet  Art  hums  Rex  quondam  Rexque  futurus.” 

Arthurian  legends  arc  attached  to  other 
places  in  Somersetshire,  notably  to  Cadbury, 
whose  earlier  name  was  Camelot,  and  to  its 
adjacent  village  of  Queen’s  Camel.  Here 
on  the  river  Camel  cluster  Arthurian  names, 
—  King  Arthur’s  Palace,  a  moated  mound ; 
King  Arthur’s  Well,  a  spring  of  magic  vir¬ 
tues  ;  King  Arthur’s  Hunting  Causeway,  an 
old  track  across  the  fields;  and  here  the  tra¬ 
dition  of  a  great  battle  lingers.  But  Glas- 
tonburv  is  not  onlv  an  Arthurian  shrine;  it 
was  once,  in  purer  days  than  ours,  the  keeper 
of  the  Holy  Grail. 

“To  whom  the  monk:  ‘The  Holy  Grail!  .  .  . 

. What  is  it  ? 

The  phantom  of  a  cup  that  comes  and  goes?’ 

30S 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


‘“Nay,  monk,  what  phantom?’  answer’d  Percivale. 

‘The  cup,  the  cup  itself,  from  which  our  Lord 
Drank  at  the  last  sad  supper  with  his  own. 

This,  from  the  blessed  land  of  Aromat  — 

After  the  day  of  darkness,  when  the  dead 
Went  wandering  o’er  Moriah  —  the  good  saint, 
Arimathfean  Joseph,  journeying  brought 
To  Glastonbury,  where  the  winter  thorn 
Blossoms  at  Christmas,  mindful  of  our  Lord. 

And  there  awhile  it  bode;  and  if  a  man 
Could  touch  or  see  it,  he  was  healed  at  once, 

By  faith,  of  all  his  ills.  But  then  the  times 

Grew  to  such  evil  that  the  holy  cup 

Was  caught  away  to  Heaven,  and  disappear’d.’ 

“To  whom  the  monk:  ‘From  our  old  books  I  know 
That  Joseph  came  of  old  to  Glastonbury, 

And  there  the  heathen  prince,  Arviragus, 

Gave  him  an  isle  of  marsh  whereon  to  build; 

And  there  he  built  with  wattles  from  the  marsh 
A  little  lonely  church.’”  1 

Dreamy  hours  were  those  we  spent  under 
the  shadow  of  Glastonbury  Tor,  among  the 
tranquil  ruins  of  that  once  so  glorious  abbey, 
strolling  about  with  a  motley  company  of 
sheep,  chickens,  and  tourists  over  what  is 
perhaps  the  most  ancient  consecrated  ground 
in  England.  Hither  came  St.  Joseph  of 
Arimathtea  with  his  eleven  companions  and 
here  the  staff  of  the  saint,  as  he  thrust  it  into 

1  Tennyson's  “The  Holy  Grail,”  30-64. 

309 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


the  ground,  put  forth  leaf  and  blossom  as  a 
signal  that  the  resting-place  was  reached. 
The  little  wattled  oratory  that  the  Archangel 
Gabriel  commanded  and  the  pagan  king  per¬ 
mitted  them  to  build  on  a  waste  island  of  the 
marsh  was  succeeded,  in  course  of  time,  by 
a  primitive  form  of  monastery,  where  St. 
Patrick,  his  mission  to  Ireland  accomplished, 
dwelt  many  years  and  died.  Here  in  a  later 
century  great  St.  Dunstan  held  the  post  of 
abbot  and  waged  at  his  forge  stern  warfare 
against  the  Devil.  And  it  is  sober  history 
that  here  a  Christian  church  and  brother¬ 
hood  lived  on  in  unbroken  peace  from  British 
times  to  English.  “What  Glastonbury  has 
to  itself,  alone  and  without  rival,”  says  Free¬ 
man,  “is  its  historical  position  as  the  tie,  at 
once  national  and  religious,  which  binds  the 
history  and  memories  of  our  race  to  those  of 
the  race  which  we  supplanted.” 

The  after-story  of  Glastonbury  is  as  tragic 
as  that  of  Whalley.  A  mitred  abbey,  en¬ 
larged  and  enriched  from  generation  to  gen¬ 
eration,  it  became  a  court  whither  the  sons 
of  noblemen  and  gentlemen  wrere  sent  for 
nurture  in  gracious  manners ;  a  school  of 
learning  whose  library  was  one  of  the  most 

310 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


precious  in  the  realm ;  a  seat  of  princely 
hospitalities  and  lavish  charities.  When  the 
storm  burst,  Abbot  Whiting  strove  to  hide 
from  the  spoilers  some  of  the  abbey  plate. 
He  was  forthwith  arrested  at  his  manor  of 
Sharpham  —  the  very  house  where  Fielding 
the  novelist  was  afterwards  born,  —  sen¬ 
tenced  at  Wells,  dragged  on  a  hurdle  to  the 
top  of  Glastonbury  Tor,  and  there  hanged 
and  butchered,  his  head  being  spiked  above 
the  abbey  gate.  The  magnificent  church 
and  extensive  conventual  buildings,  stripped 
and  abandoned,  long  served  the  neighbour¬ 
hood  as  a  quarry.  Richly  sculptured  blocks 
were  built  into  barns  and  garden- walls  and 
even  broken  up  for  making  a  road  over  the 
marshes.  Little  is  left  for  the  gazer  now 
save  a  few  weed-crowned  columns,  an  ex¬ 
quisite  Early  English  chapel  on  the  site  of 
St.  Joseph’s  wattled  church,  a  gabled  tithe- 
barn,  an  old  pilgrim  inn,  and  the  Abbot’s 
Kitchen,  a  witchcap  structure  whose  four 
vast  fireplaces  must  all  have  roared  with 
jollity  when  Abbot  Whiting  chanced  to  be 
entertaining  five  hundred  “persons  of 
fashion”  at  a  single  dinner-party.  As  we 
wandered  over  the  daisied  pastureland  from 

311 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


one  grey  fragment  to  another,  we  realised  the 
invisible  Glastonbury  all  the  more  in  the 
peace  that  has  come  with  the  perishing  of 
the  visible.  “Time  the  Shadow”  has  but 
softened  the  splendour.  More  than  ever  is 
this 

“the  island- valley  of  Avilion; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 

Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly;  but  it  lies 
Deep-meadow’d,  happy,  fair  with  orchard  lawns 
And  bowery  hollows.” 

It  is  only  six  miles  from  Glastonbury  to 
Wells,  one  of  the  loveliest  cathedral  cities  of 
England,  not  a  place  to  hurry  through,  but 
to  settle  in  and  quietly  enjoy.  Lodgings  in 
Vicar’s  Close,  leisurely  strolls  through  the 
gardens  of  the  Bishop’s  Palace,  hours  of 
revery  in  choir  and  chapter-house  and  Lady 
Chapel,  —  it  is  so  that  one  is  taken  to  the 
heart  of  all  this  holy  beauty.  The  founda¬ 
tion  dates  back  to  the  beginning  of  the  eighth 
century,  but  Saxon  church  melted  into  Nor¬ 
man,  and  Norman  into  Early  English,  — 
substantially  the  cathedral  of  to-day,  with 
that  wonderful  facade  of  which  Fuller  truly 
said :  “England  affordeth  not  the  like.”  The 
story  of  the  city  is  the  story  of  the  church,  and 

312 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 

the  story  of  the  church  is  one  of  honour  and 
untroubled  peace.  Not  being  a  monastery, 
it  was  untouched  by  the  blow  that  smote 
Glastonbury  down.  The  rage  of  war  has 
passed  it  by.  Its  bishops  have  left  saintly 
memories.  Above  this  matchless  group  of 
ecclesiastical  buildings  tender  benignities 
brood  like  outspread  wings.  There  is  bless¬ 
ing  in  the  very  air. 

Wells  lies  in  a  basin  at  the  foot  of  the  Men- 
dip  Hills,  which  offer  tempting  points  for 
excursions.  Our  most  uncanny  trip  was  to 
Wookey  Hole,  where,  according  to  a  ballad  in 
Percy’s  “  Reliques,”  “a  blear-eyed  hag ’’used 
to  dwell.  A  farmer,  groaning  with  rheu¬ 
matism,  guided  us  along  a  rocky  footpath 
to  the  cavern  entrance,  where  an  impish  boy 
met  us,  gave  us  lighted  tapers  and  himself 
literally  blazed  the  way  with  a  can  of  some 
lurid-burning  oil.  After  scrambling  up  and 
scrambling  down,  frequently  abjured  by  our 
little  leader  to  “mind  yer  ’eads,”  we  left 
Hell’s  Ladder  behind  us  and  came  out  into 
an  open  space  known  as  the  Witch’s  Kitchen. 
Here  was  the  Witch  herself,  a  sphinx-like 
figure  made  by  the  petrifaction  of  the  water 
dripping  from  the  roof.  She  received  us 

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SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


with  a  stolid  stare,  the  graceless  urchin  threw 
a  pebble  at  her  flat  nose,  and  we  gladly 
scrambled  back  to  upper  day. 

I  have  a  pleasanter  recollection  of  Cox’s 
Cave  at  Cheddar,  with  its  clearly  defined 
pillars  and  pinnacles,  some  amber,  some 
olive,  some  transparent,  some  musical.  It 
requires  but  little  imagination  to  distinguish 
in  this  fantastic  world  the  queer  assortment 
of  “Hindoo  Temple,”  “Mummy,”  “Bat’s 
Wings,  ”  “Eagle’s  Wings,  ”  “Loaf  of  Bread,  ” 
“Hanging  Goose,”  “Rat  running  up  a 
Rock,”  “Turkeys,”  “Carrots, ”  and  the 
splendid  “Draperies.”  There  is  a  place 
where  stalagmite  and  stalactite  nearly  touch, 
—  only  one  drop  wanting,  yet  in  all  these 
years  since  Mr.  Cox,  while  prosaically  dig¬ 
ging  for  a  coach-house,  discovered  this  elfin 
grotto,  in  1837,  that  drop  has  not  crystal¬ 
lised,  —  so  slow  is  the  underground  sculptor. 

All  this  region  of  the  Mendip  Hills,  whose 
limestone  cliffs  rise  sheer,  terrace  above 
terrace,  is  full  of  fascination.  Traces  of 
prehistoric  man,  as  well  as  of  extinct  animal 
species,  have  been  found  in  its  deep  caverns. 
In  the  Hyaena  Den,  when  disclosed  in  1852, 
the  eyes  of  geologists  could  discern  the  very 

314 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


places  where  our  shaggy  forbears  had  lighted 
their  fires  and  cooked  their  food.  It  seems 
a  far  cry  from  those  low- browed  cave- folk  to 
Lord  Macaulay,  who  loved  this  West  Coun¬ 
try  so  well,  and  to  John  Locke,  who  was  born 
in  the  village  of  Wrington,  —  a  village  which 
furthermore  prides  itself  on  one  of  the  noblest 
church- towers  in  Somerset  and  on  the  de¬ 
corous  grave  of  Hannah  More. 

All  manner  of  literary  associations  jostle 
one  another  in  the  town  of  Bath,  to  which 
at  home  I  have  heard  English  visitors  liken 
our  Boston.  They  meant  it  as  a  compliment, 
for  Bath  is  a  handsome  city,  even  ranked 
by  Landor,  one  of  its  most  loyal  residents, 
above  the  cities  of  Italy  for  purity  and  con¬ 
sistent  dignity  of  architecture.  To  reach 
Bath  we  have  journeyed  east  from  the  Men- 
dip  Hills  into  the  valley  of  the  Lesser  Avon. 
Here  “the  Queen  of  all  the  Spas”  holds  her 
court,  the  tiers  of  pale  stone  terraces  and 
crescents  climbing  up  the  steep  sides  of  the 
valley  to  a  height  of  some  eight  hundred  feet. 

Of  the  sights  of  Bath,  the  Abbey  is  most 
disappointing,  and  well  it  may  be,  for  it  was 
despoiled  not  only  ot  its  glass  but  even  of  its 
iron  and  lead  by  Henry  VIII,  and  only  a 

315 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


bleak  framework  left  to  pass  through  a  series 
of  purchasers  to  the  citizens.  The  west 
front  wears  a  curious  design  of  ladders  on 
which  battered  angels  clamber  up  and  down. 
The  interior  has  no  “dim  religious  light,” 
but  gilt  and  colour  and  such  a  throng  of 
gaudy  monuments  that  the  wits  have  made 
merry  at  the  expense  of  the  vaunted  mineral 
springs. 

“These  walls,  adorned  with  monument  and  bust. 

Show  how  Bath  waters  serve  to  lay  the  dust." 

The  healing  quality  of  the  waters  is  at¬ 
tributed,  by  the  veracious  Geoffrey  of  Mon¬ 
mouth,  to  the  British  king  Bladud,  father  of 
King  Lear.  This  Bladud,  being  skilled  in 
sorcery,  placed  in  the  gushing  spring  a  cun¬ 
ning  stone  that  made  the  water  hot  and 
curative.  The  wizard  met  an  untimely  end 
in  a  flight  on  wings  of  his  own  devising.  He 
rode  the  air  safely  from  Bath  to  London, 
but  there  fell  and  was  dashed  in  pieces  on  the 
roof  of  the  temple  of  Apollo.  The  Romans 
knew  the  virtue  of  these  waters,  and  modern 
excavation  has  disclosed,  with  other  rem¬ 
nants  of  a  perished  splendour,  elaborate 
Roman  baths,  arched  and  columned  and 

216 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 

beautifully  paved.  It  is  so  long  since  the 
hour  when  I  went  wandering  down  into 
those  buried  chambers  that  I  but  dimly 
recall  a  large  central  basin,  where  languid 
gold-fish  circled  in  a  green  pool,  begirt  by  a 
stone  platform,  old  and  mossy.  This  was 
set  about  with  pilasters  and  capitals  and  all 
manner  of  classic  fragments,  among  which 
were  mingled  bits  of  mediaeval  carving. 
For  a  Saxon  monastery  was  founded  here, 
where,  according  to  the  Exeter  Book,  still 
stood  “courts  of  stone,”  and  the  baths  were 
known  and  frequented  throughout  the  Mid¬ 
dle  Ages  and  in  Tudor  and  Stuart  times. 
But  the  Bath  of  the  eighteenth-century  soci¬ 
ety-novel,  the  Bath  of  which  Miss  Burney 
and  Miss  Austen,  Fielding  and  Smollet  have 
drawn  such  graphic  pictures,  owed  its  being 
chiefly  to  Beau  Nash.  The  city  to  which 
this  gallant  Oxonian  came  in  1703  was  a 
mean,  rough  place  enough.  The  baths  were 
“unseemly  ponds,”  open  to  the  weather  and 
to  the  view  of  the  passersby,  who  found  it 
amusing  to  pelt  the  invalid  bathers  with 
dead  cats  —  poor  pussies !  —  and  frogs.  But 
Nash  secured  a  band  of  music  for  the  Pump 
Room,  set  orderly  balls  on  foot,  and  soon 

S17 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


won  the  title  of  King  of  Bath,  which  he  made 
such  a  focus  of  fashion  that  the  place  grew 
during  his  lifetime  from  its  poor  estate  into 
the  comely  city  of  to-day.  This  arbiter  of 
elegance  maintained  a  mimicry  of  royal 
pomp.  His  dress  glistened  with  lace  and 
embroidery  and  he  travelled  in  a  chaise 
drawn  by  six  grey  horses,  with  a  full  com¬ 
plement  of  outriders,  footmen,  and  French 
horns. 

The  Pump  Room  is  worth  a  visit.  It  is 
an  oblong  saloon,  with  a  semicircular  recess 
at  either  end.  At  the  west  end  is  a  music 
gallery,  and  at  the  east  a  statue  of  Beau  Nash. 
A  three-fourths  square  of  cushioned  seats 
occupies  the  middle  of  the  room  and  opens 
toward  a  counter.  Here  a  white-capped 
maid  dispenses,  at  twopence  a  glass,  the 
yellow  fluid  which  hisses  up  hot  from  a 
fountain  just  behind  her  and  falls  murmur¬ 
ing  into  a  marble  vase.  And  all  about,  a 
part  of  the  spectacle,  sit  the  health-seekers, 
sipping  the  magic  water  from  glasses  in  dec¬ 
orated  saucers  and  looking  a  trifle  foolish. 

Here,  or  in  steering  one’s  course  among 
the  Bath  chairs  that  claim  a  native’s  right  of 
way  in  park  and  promenade,  fancy  may 

318 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


choose  almost  any  companion  she  will. 
Pope  hated  Bath,  to  be  sure,  and  called  it 
“the  sulphurous  pit,”  but  not  even  Pope 
kept  out  of  it;  Beckford,  the  author  of 
“  Vathek,”  lived  here ;  Butler,  author  of  the 
“Analogy,”  died  here ;  Pepys  scribbled  a  page 
of  his “  Diary”  here ;  Herschel  the  astronomer 
played  a  chapel-organ  here;  Lord  Chester¬ 
field’s  manners  and  Sheridan’s  wit  found 
here  an  apt  field  of  exercise;  but  for  my 
part  —  and  it  was  a  scandalous  choice,  with 
the  ghosts  of  Pitt  and  Burke,  Wolfe  and 
Nelson,  Cowper  and  Scott  and  Goldsmith 
and  Moore  ready  to  do  escort  duty  —  I 
wished  for  the  company  of  Chaucer’s  Wife 
of  Bath,  for  such  a  piquant  gossip  could  not 
have  failed  to  add  some  entertaining  items 
to  the  story  of  the  town. 

Our  final  pilgrimage  of  last  summer  was 
made  to  Clevedon,  a  quiet  village  which 
has  within  half  a  century  become  a  popular 
summer  resort.  It  lies 

“By  that  broad  water  of  the  west,’’ 

where  the  Severn  merges  into  the  Bristol  Chan¬ 
nel.  Here  is  Myrtle  Cottage,  where  Coleridge 
and  his  bride  had  their  brief  season  of  joy. 

319 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


“Low  was  our  pretty  cot;  our  tallest  rose 
Peeped  at  the  chamber  window.  We  could  hear 
At  silent  noon,  and  eve,  and  early  mom 
The  sea’s  faint  murmur.  In  the  open  air 
Our  myrtle  blossomed;  and  across  the  porch 
Thick  jasmines  twined.” 

It  was  here  that  this  poet  of  boundless 
promise, 

“The  rapt  one  of  the  godlike  forehead, 

The  heaven-eyed  creature,” 

wrote  his  “iEolian  Harp,”  his  “  Frost  at  Mid¬ 
night,”  and  other  lyrics  touched  with  an  un¬ 
wonted  serenity  and  sweetness,  and  here  that 
Hartley  Coleridge  was  born. 

But  our  first  walk  took  us  by  the  beach  and 
across  the  fields  to  that  “obscure  and  soli¬ 
tary  church”  where  lies  Tennyson’s  Arthur, 
son  of  Henry  Hallam  the  historian,  and  him¬ 
self  a  poet.  He  was  in  Vienna  when 

“God’s  finger  touch’d  him  and  he  slept,” 

and  Tennyson  linked  the  Austrian  and  the 
English  rivers  in  his  elegy. 

“The  Danube  to  the  Severn  gave 

The  darken’d  heart  that  beat  no  more; 

They  laid  him  by  the  pleasant  shore. 

And  in  the  hearing  of  the  wave. 

320 


st.  peter’s  church,  clevedon 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


“There  twice  a  day  the  Severn  fills; 

The  salt  sea-water  passes  by, 

And  hushes  half  the  babbling  Wye, 

And  makes  a  silence  in  the  hills.” 

The  ancient  church,  now  but  seldom 
opened  for  service,  was  locked,  and  we  had 
to  hunt  for  the  sexton.  It  was  dusk  when 
he  arrived,  but  we  groped  our  way  to  the 
south  transept  and,  by  the  light  of  a  lifted 
taper,  made  out  the  pathetic  farewell: 

VALE  DULCISSIME 
VALE  DILECTISSIME 
DESIDERATISSIME 
REQUIESCAS  IN  PACE 

It  was  this  tablet  that  haunted  the  restless¬ 
ness  of  Tennyson’s  grief  as,  on  moonlight 
nights,  he  would  seem  to  see  that  lustre  which 
fell  across  his  bed  gliding  through  the  tran¬ 
sept  window  and  becoming  “a  glory  on  the 
walls.” 

“The  marble  bright  in  dark  appears. 

As  slowly  steals  a  silver  flame 
Along  the  letters  of  thy  name. 

And  o’er  the  number  of  thy  years. 

“The  mystic  glory  swims  away; 

From  off  my  bed  the  moonlight  dies; 

And  closing  eaves  of  wearied  eyes 
I  sleep  till  dusk  is  dipt  in  grey: 

321 


21 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


“And  then  I  know  the  mist  is  drawn 
A  lucid  veil  from  coast  to  coast, 

And  in  the  dark  church  like  a  ghost 
Thy  tablet  glimmers  to  the  dawn.” 

From  Clevedon,  from  Bath,  from  Ched¬ 
dar,  from  Wells,  the  roads  lead  to  Bristol, 
which  must  not,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  poor 
Chatter  ton,  be  ignored.  This  worn,  dig¬ 
nified  old  city  has  had  something  of  a  va¬ 
grant  career.  Before  the  Norman  Conquest, 
and  for  long  after,  Bristol  stood  north  of  the 
Avon  and  was  a  Gloucestershire  town.  In 
course  of  time  it  stretched  across  the  river 
and  lay  partly  in  Somerset.  And  in  the 
fourteenth  century,  when  for  wealth  and 
consequence  it  ranked  second  only  to  Lon¬ 
don,  Edward  III  created  it  a  county  by  it¬ 
self.  From  the  dawn  of  its  history  it  was  a 
trading-mart.  Nothing  came  amiss  to  it, 
even  kidnapping,  so  that  among  its  gains  it 
gained  the  title  “Stepmother  of  all  England.  ” 
The  merchants  and  the  mariners  of  Bristol 
stood  in  the  front  of  English  enterprise. 
Even  in  the  time  of  Stephen  it  was  deemed 
wellnigh  the  richest  city  of  the  kingdom. 
When  a  foreign  war  was  in  hand,  Bristol 
could  be  counted  on  for  a  large  contingent 

822 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


of  ships  and  men.  Its  merchants  lived  in 
towered  mansions,  with  capacious  cellars 
for  the  storage  of  their  goods,  warehouses 
and  shops  on  the  street  floor,  the  family 
parlours  and  bedrooms  above,  and  attics  for 
the  prentices  in  the  sharp-pitched  gables. 
The  banquet-halls,  at  the  rear  of  these  spa¬ 
cious  dwellings,  were  splendid  with  carven 
roofs,  rich  tapestries,  and  plate  that  would 
have  graced  a  royal  board.  Even  the  critical 
Pepys,  who  visited  Bristol  after  its  Spanish 
and  West  Indian  trades  were  well  established, 
found  its  quay  “a  most  large  and  noble 
place.” 

Bristol  sailors  bear  no  small  part  in  the 
tales  of  English  sea-daring  and  records  of 
discovery.  As  early  as  1480,  Bristol  mer¬ 
chants  were  sending  out  tall  ships  to  search 
west  of  Ireland  for  “the  Island  of  Brazil 
and  the  Seven  Cities.”  Sixteen  years  later 
the  Venetian  mariner,  John  Cabot,  prob¬ 
ably  accompanied  by  his  son  Sebastian  — 
“shadow-seekers,”  the  old  Bristol  tars  would 
call  them  —  had  touched  the  coast  of  North 
America.  On  his  return  the  “Great  Ad¬ 
miral”  clad  himself  in  silk  and  was  a  nota¬ 
ble  figure  in  the  Bristol  streets.  Phantasmal 

823 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


though  it  all  seems  in  a  retrospect  of  cen¬ 
turies,  many  are  the  men  who  have  drawn  the 
gaze  in  these  ever-moving  thoroughfares,  — 
William  Canynges,  “Merchant  Royal,” 
whose  trade  with  the  north  of  Europe  prob¬ 
ably  exceeded  that  of  any  other  merchant  in 
England;  Thomas  Norton,  fifteenth-cen¬ 
tury  alchemist  and  dreamer,  who  believed 
that  he  had  discovered  both  the  Philoso¬ 
pher’s  Stone  and  the  Elixir  of  Life ;  Captain 
Thomas  James,  for  whom  James’s  Bay  is 
named,  he  whose  search  for  the  Northwest 
Passage  is  one  of  the  heroic  chapters  in  the 
annals  of  the  sea;  the  Reverend  Richard 
Hakluyt,  always  deep  in  talk  with  some 
grizzled  seaman ;  Captain  Martin  Pring, 
proud  of  the  load  of  sassafras  he  had  brought 
back  from  Cape  Cod;  Colston  the  philan¬ 
thropist,  the  local  saint.  Mere  literary  folk 
would  have  been  embarrassed  by  little  enough 
attention  as  they  went  their  quiet  ways. 
What  was  Chatterton  to  the  trading,  ship¬ 
building,  ship-lading  town  but  a  bright-eyed 
Blue- Coat  boy  ?  And  how  those  hard-headed 
merchants  would  have  chuckled  over  the 
eager  scheme  of  three  penniless  young  poets, 
Coleridge,  Southey,  and  Lovell,  for  founding 

324 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


a  community  on  the  Susquehanna  —  a  river 
of  melodious  name  and  delightfully  far  away 
—  where  no  one  should  labour  more  than 
two  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four! 

I  have  been  in  Bristol  several  times,  but  I 
remember  the  workaday  old  city  as  I  saw  it 
first.  It  was  September  weather,  and  Col¬ 
lege  Green  was  strewn  with  sallow  leaves 
that  flitted  and  whispered  continually  like 
memories  of  the  past.  A  few  fat  sheep  were 
in  possession,  together  with  a  statue  of  Queen 
Victoria  and  a  Gothic  cross.  On  the  south 
of  the  Green,  once  the  burial-ground  of  the 
abbey,  stands  the  cathedral,  the  older  por¬ 
tion,  in  contrast  with  the  new,  looking  black 
and  rough  and  massy.  The  jewel  of  this 
building  —  which  was  one  of  the  few  abbey 
churches  to  profit  by  the  Dissolution,  in  that 
Henry  VIII  was  graciously  pleased,  estab¬ 
lishing  the  bishopric  of  Bristol,  to  raise  it  to 
cathedral  rank  —  is  its  Norman  chapter- 
house,  a  rectangular  chamber  wonderfully  en¬ 
riched  with  stone  carvings  and  diaper  work 
and  interlaced  arcades.  Among  the  bishops 
on  whom  the  silvery  lights  from  the  Jesse 
window,  the  great  east  window  of  the  choir, 
have  fallen,  are  Fletcher,  father  of  the 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


dramatist,  and  Trelawney  of  Cornish  fame. 
With  a  lingering  look  at  the  Norman  arch¬ 
way  known  as  College  gate,  whose  elaborate 
mouldings  are  worn  on  the  sea-wind  side, 
but  still  distinct  on  the  other,  I  crossed  the 
Green  to  the  Mayor’s  Chapel,  a  little  Gothic 
church  of  peculiar  beauty,  with  windows  that 
are  harmonies  in  glass,  and  with  monuments, 
among  which  the  burgess  element  is  marked,  so 
old  and  strange,  yet  so  naive  and  natural,  that 
the  valour,  love,  and  grief  of  a  far  past  seem 
but  held  in  slumber  there.  If  the  marble 
figures  rise  and  talk  together  on  All  Saints’ 
Eve,  it  is  a  quaint  but  seemly  assemblage. 

Bristol,  even  in  the  palmy  days  of  her 
rum- trade  and  her  slave-trade,  was  always 
singularly  given  to  religion,  and  her  churches 
are  numerous,  —  St.  Peter’s,  her  mother- 
church,  with  an  Early  Norman  tower,  guard¬ 
ing  the  ashes  of  her  ill-starred  poet,  Rich¬ 
ard  Savage,  who  died,  a  debtor,  in  Newgate 
prison  hard  by  and  wTas  buried  at  his  jailer’s 
costs ;  St.  Stephen’s,  whose  turreted  Perpen¬ 
dicular  tower  is  one  of  the  sights  of  the  city ; 
and  many  another;  but  supreme  among 
them  all, 

“The  pride  of  Bristowe  and  the  Western  londe, ” 

3-26 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


is  St.  Mary  Redcliffe.  This  superb  struct¬ 
ure,  ever  since  the  day  when  Queen  Bess 
called  it  “the  fairest,  the  goodliest,  and  most 
famous  parish- church  in  England,  ”  has  gone 
on  adding  praise  to  praise.  It  is  of  ancient 
foundation,  still  observing,  at  Whitsuntide, 
the  ceremony  of  rush- bearing,  but  it  was 
rebuilt,  in  course  of  the  fourteenth  and 
fifteenth  centuries,  by  Mayor  Canynges  the 
grandfather  and  Mayor  Canynges  the  grand¬ 
son.  It  is  a  pity  that  their  alabaster  heads 
should  be  all  scratched  over  with  initials. 
It  was  in  this  church  that  Chatterton  pre¬ 
tended  to  discover  the  manuscript  poems  of 
his  invented  monk  Rowley ;  it  was  here  that 
Coleridge  and  Southey  wedded  the  ladies  of 
their  Pantisocratical  choice;  and  every  good 
American  is  expected  to  thrill  at  the  sight  of 
the  armour,  hanging  from  one  of  the  piers,  of 
the  gallant  admiral,  Sir  William  Penn,  a  native 
of  Bristol  and  the  father  of  our  Quaker. 

On  my  first  visit,  I  righteously  went  on 
bus-top  out  to  Clifton,  the  breathing- place 
of  Bristol,  viewed  the  great  grassy  upland, 
with  the  Avon  flowing  muddily  through  a 
deep  gorge,  paced  the  boasted  Suspension 
Bridge  that  spans  the  gorge,  and  finally,  by 

327 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


way  of  tribute  to  “  Evelina  ”  and  “  Humphrey 
Clinker,”  followed  “the  zigzag”  down  to  the 
Hotwells,  whose  glory  as  a  spa  is  now  de¬ 
parted.  But  of  all  that  one  may  see  in  or 
about  Bristol,  nothing  so  impresses  the  mind 
as  the  big,  plain,  serious  old  town  itself.  It 
has  been  out-distanced  in  commerce  and  in 
manufacture  by  those  giant  upstarts,  Liver¬ 
pool  and  Manchester,  yet  it  is  still  patiently 
pushing  on  in  its  accustomed  track.  So  ab¬ 
sorbed  in  business  routine  does  it  seem  that 
one  almost  forgets  that  it  has  ever  had  other 
than  practical  interests,1 — that  the  “Lyrical 
Ballads”  found  their  publisher  here,  —  but 
gives  one’s  self  over  to  the  latent  romance  of 
commerce  and  of  trade.  One  wanders 
through  Corn  Street  and  Wine  Street  and 
Christmas  Street,  by  Bakers’  Hall  and 
Spicers’  Hall  and  Merchant  Venturers’  Hall, 
and  —  for  the  tidal  Avon  is  navigable  even 
for  vessels  of  large  tonnage  —  is  ever  freshly 
astonished,  as  Pope  was  astonished,  to  behold 
“in  the  middle  of  the  street,  as  far  as  you 
can  see,  hundreds  of  ships,  their  masts  as 
thick  as  they  can  stand  by  one  another,  which 
is  the  oddest  and  most  surprising  sight 
imaginable.” 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 

The  last  great  city  in  our  summer  path  was 
Exeter,  whose  greatness  is  of  the  past.  Exe¬ 
ter  is,  like  Bristol,  a  county  of  itself,  and  yet 
stands,  in  a  true  sense,  as  the  capital  of 
Devonshire.  It  is,  moreover,  the  heart  of 
the  whole  West  Country.  “In  Exeter,”  says 
Mr.  Norway,  a  Cornishman,  “all  the  history 
of  the  West  is  bound  up  —  its  love  of  liberty, 
its  independence,  its  passionate  resistance  to 
foreign  conquerors,  its  devotion  to  lost  causes, 
its  loyalty  to  the  throne,  its  pride,  its  trade, 
its  maritime  adventure,  —  all  these  many 
strands  are  twined  together  in  that  bond 
which  links  West  Countrymen  to  Exeter. 
There  is  no  incident  in  their  past  history 
which  does  not  touch  her.  Like  them  she  was 
unstained  by  heathendom,  and  kept  her  faith 
when  the  dwellers  in  less  happy  cities  further 
north  were  pricked  to  the  worship  of  Thor 
and  Odin  at  the  point  of  Saxon  spears.  Like 
them  she  fought  valiantly  against  the  Norman 
Conqueror,  and  when  she  fell  their  cause 
fell  with  her.  And  since  those  days  what  a 
host  of  great  and  stirring  incidents  have  hap¬ 
pened  here,  from  Perkin  Warbeck  beating 
on  the  gates  with  his  rabble  of  brave  Cor- 
nishmen,  to  William  of  Orange  going  in  high 
329 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


state  to  the  cathedral,  welcomed  already  as 
a  deliverer  to  that  throne  which  it  lay  almost 
with  Exeter  to  give  or  to  withhold.” 

Exeter  impresses  the  stranger  to-day  merely 
as  a  prosperous  county- town,  a  pleasant 
cathedral  city,  yet  in  the  reign  of  Stephen  it 
was  ranked  for  importance  next  after  Lon¬ 
don,  York,  and  Winchester,  supplanting  Lin¬ 
coln,  once  the  holder  of  the  fourth  place, 
from  which  it  was  soon  itself  to  be  dislodged 
by  Bristol.  But  Exeter,  seated  on  the  hill 
where,  in  dim,  wild  ages,  a  band  of  Britons 
built  them  a  rude  stronghold,  beside  the 
stream  up  whose  reddened  waters  the  vessels 
of  Roman  and  Saxon  and  Dane  have  fought 
their  way,  does  not  forget.  So  faithful  is  her 
memory,  indeed,  that  still  the  vicar  of  Pinhoe, 
a  village  almost  in  her  suburbs,  receives  every 
year  a  handful  of  shining  silver  pieces  in 
recognition  of  a  deed  of  daring  performed  by 
a  long-ago  predecessor  in  his  holy  office. 
When  the  West  Countrymen,  bent  on  driv¬ 
ing  out  the  Danes,  wTere  in  the  thick  of  a  hard 
fight  there  at  Pinhoe,  their  supply  of  arrows 
fell  short,  and  this  plucky  priest,  girding  up 
his  gown,  dodged  through  the  enemy  to  the 
c,  ;adel,  bringing  back  —  so  schoolboy ish  were 

SSO 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


those  old  battles  —  a  bundle  of  feathered 
shafts  that  might  have  saved  the  day.  But 
although  the  Danes  triumphed,  Exeter  has 
paid  an  annual  reward  of  sixteen  shillings 
to  the  vicar  of  Pinhoe  ever  since  —  a  period 
of  some  nine  hundred  years. 

We  rendered,  of  course,  our  first  homage 
to  the  cathedral,  rejoicing  in  the  oft-praised 
symmetries  of  the  interior  and,  hardly  less, 
in  the  tender  colour- tones  that  melted,  blues 
into  greys,  and  fawns  into  creams,  with  the 
softening  of  the  light.  The  cathedral  library 
contains  that  treasure  of  our  literature,  the 
Exeter  Book,  an  anthology  of  Anglo-Saxon 
poetry,  “one  great  English  book  of  divers 
things,  song- wise  wrought,”  left  by  the  will 
of  Bishop  Leofric,  who  died  in  1072,  to  “  Saint 
Peter’s  minster  in  Exeter  where  his  bishop- 
stool  is.”  Miles  Coverdale,  translator  of  the 
Bible,  was  bishop  here  in  Tudor  times,  and 
Sir  Jonathan  Trelawney,  transferred  from 
the  poorer  see  of  Bristol,  held  for  eighteen 
years  Exeter’s  episcopal  throne,  —  a  “bishop- 
stool”  most  magnificently  fashioned.  This 
Trelawney  was  one  of  the  “Seven  Bishops” 
who  clashed  with  James  II  and  were  thrown 
into  prison.  Ilis  home  was  in  Cornwall, 
SSI 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


and  the  famous  song,  which  may  owe  its 
present  form  to  the  Rev.  R.  S.  Hawker,  the 
eccentric  vicar  of  Morwenstow,  thunders  the 
wrath  of  the  West  Country: 

‘'And  have  they  fixed  the  where  and  when? 

And  shall  Trelawney  die  ? 

Here’s  twenty  thousand  Cornishmen 
Will  know  the  reason  why.” 

And  speaking  of  vicars,  the  most  hurried 
tourist  should  cast  a  glance  up  to  the  red 
tower  of  St.  Thomas’  church,  for  the  sake  of 
another  clergyman  who  dared  brave  a  king. 
The  vicar  of  St.  Thomas  was  conspicuous 
in  the  West  Country  rebellion  against  the  re¬ 
formed  service,  involving  the  use  of  an  Eng¬ 
lish  prayer-book,  introduced  by  law  in  1549. 
The  men  of  Devon  and,  even  more,  the  men  of 
Cornwall,  who  understood  the  English  hardly 
better  than  the  Latin,  looked  upon  this  new 
form  of  worship  as  “but  a  Christmas  game” 
and  could  not  “abide  to  hear  of  any  other 
religion  than  as  they  were  first  nuzled  in.” 
This  Exeter  vicar  went  on  chanting  the  Latin 
liturgy  and  wearing  his  old  vestments,  so 
that,  for  his  contumacy,  he  was  hanged  “in 
his  popish  apparel”  from  a  gallows  erected 
on  top  of  his  own  church- tower. 

332 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 

Of  the  secular  buildings  in  Exeter,  we 
visited  the  fine-fronted  guildhall  in  High 
Street  and  Mol’s  Coffee  House  in  the  Cathe¬ 
dral  Yard.  The  custodian  of  the  guildhall 
proudly  pointed  out  the  beauties  of  its  fif¬ 
teenth-century  carvings,  and  hospitably  in¬ 
vited  us  to  try  on  the  gorgeous  robes  of  the 
civic  dignitaries  and  sit  in  their  great  chairs 
of  fretted  oak,  but  we  contented  ourselves 
with  viewing  the  various  treasures  of  the  old 
burgh  on  exhibition  there,  —  gold  chains  of 
office,  silver  salvers  and  loving-cups,  a  huge, 
two-handed  sword  that  long  since  drank  its 
last  draught  of  blood  in  the  fierce  grip  of 
Edward  IV,  a  portrait  of  the  Stuart  princess 
who,  when  Charles  I  and  Queen  Henrietta 
were  in  sore  straits,  had  been  born  and  shel¬ 
tered  at  Exeter,  and  many  another  memento 
of  an  eventful  and  honourable  past.  We 
went  away  rapt  in  visions  of  those  blithe 
Midsummer  Eves  when  all  the  Exeter  guilds, 
preceded  by  a  mounted  band  consisting  of 
Mayor  and  Alderman  and  Council,  made 
the  circuit  of  the  city  walls,  the  image  of  St. 
Peter  borne  before  the  Fishmongers,  that  of 
St.  Luke  before  the  Painters,  and  every  other 
trade  in  like  manner  preceded  by  its  especial 

333 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


patron  saint;  but  Mol’s  Coffee  House  called 
up  a  later  picture  of 

“Sir  Francis  Drake,  and  Martin  Frobisher, 

John  Hawkins,  and  your  other  English  captains,” 

who,  with  their  Devonshire  countrymen,  Sir 
Humphrey  Gilbert,  Sir  Richard  Grenville, 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  used  to  meet  in  the  oak- 
panelled  hall  of  this  Tudor  mansion  for  such 
high,  adventurous  talk  as  must  have  made 
the  wine  sparkle  in  their  cups. 

We  were  a  little  tired  in  Exeter,  I  remem¬ 
ber,  but  instead  of  prying  out  from  the  west 
wall  of  the  cathedral,  as  we  would  have  done 
three  hundred  years  ago,  a  bit  of  “Peter- 
stone”  to  cure  our  ailments,  we  took  a  bliss¬ 
ful  drive  up  the  Exe,  —  such  a  trickle  of  a 
stream  just  then  that  only  regard  for  the 
coachman’s  feelings  restrained  us  from  mak¬ 
ing  fun  of  it,  —  through  the  tranquil  beauty 
of  Devonshire  lanes,  by  thatched  cottage 
and  lordly  park  and  one  dreamy  little  church 
after  another,  each  with  its  special  feature  of 
pinnacled  tower,  or  Saxon  font,  or  quaint  old 
pew,  or  frieze  of  angel  frescoes.  We  passed 
a  modest  almshouse,  perhaps  the  bequest  of 
husband  and  wife  for  the  maintenance  of 

334 


DEVON  COTTAGE 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


four  widows  or  two  married  couples.  At  all 
events,  the  inscription  beneath  a  portrait 
head  in  relief  ran: 

“Grudge  not  my  laurell. 

Rather  blesse  that  Power 
Which  made  the  death  of  two 
The  life  of  fowre.” 

Every  mile  of  Devonshire  has  its  charm, 
not  to  be  mapped  out  in  advance,  but  freshly 
discovered  by  each  new  lover  of  the  moorland 
and  the  sea,  of  soft  air  and  the  play  of  shadows, 
of  folklore  and  tradition,  of  the  memory  of 
heroes.  Those  who  cannot  know  fair  Devon 
in  actual  presence  may  find  her  at  her  best 
in  the  romances  of  Kingsley  and  Blackmore 
and  Phillpotts.  The  shire  abounds  in  sea- 
magic.  The  south  coast,  with  its  wealth  of 
sheltered  bays  and  tempting  inlets,  has  so 
mild  and  equable  a  climate  that  its  dreamy 
windings  have  become  dotted  with  winter 
resorts  as  well  as  watering-places.  Lyme 
Regis,  on  the  edge  of  Dorset,  Sidmouth  and 
Exmouth  and  Dawlish,  Teignmouth,  whence 
Keats  dated  his  “Endymion,"  and  fashion 
able  Torquay  are  perhaps  the  most  in  favour, 
but  all  the  shore  is  warm  and  wonderful  in 
colour,  set  as  it  is  with  wave-washed  cliffs 

335 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


that  glisten  ruddy  and  white  and  rose-pink 
in  the  sun.  These  shining  headlands,  about 
which  beat  the  wild  white  wings  of  seagulls, 
are  haunted  by  legends  wilder  yet.  Half¬ 
way  between  Dawlish  and  Teignmouth  are 
two  red  sandstone  pillars,  the  statelier  with 
its  top  suggestive  of  a  tumbled  wig,  the  lower 
standing  at  a  deferential  tilt.  In  these  are 
shut  the  sinful  souls  of  an  East  Devon  clergy¬ 
man  and  his  clerk,  who  longed  too  eagerly, 
in  the  hope  of  their  own  preferment,  for  the 
death  of  a  Bishop  of  Exeter. 

Further  down  the  coast  the  health  seekers 
and  holiday  folk  are  somewhat  less  in  evi¬ 
dence.  The  old,  cliff- climbing  town  of  Brix- 
liam,  where  William  of  Orange  landed,  goes 
fishing  for  a  livelihood.  Dartmouth,  not  so 
joyous  to-day  as  when  Coeur  de  Lion  gath¬ 
ered  there  the  fleet  that  was  to  win  for  Chris¬ 
tendom  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  not  so  turbulent 
as  when  Chaucer  suspected  his  wild-bearded 
seaman,  little  better  than  a  pirate,  of  hailing 
from  that  port,  not  so  adventurous  as  when 
one  John  Davis,  of  Sandridge  on  the  Dart, 
sailed  out  from  her  blue  harbour  with  his 
two  small  vessels,  the  Sunneshine  and  the 
Moonshine,  to  seek  a  passage  to  China  by 

336 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


way  of  the  Polar  sea,  is  mainly  occupied  in 
the  training  of  midshipmen.  A  steamer 
trip  up  the  Dart,  that  sudden  and  dangerous 
stream  of  neighbourhood  dread 

—  “River  of  Dart,  river  of  Dart, 

Every  year  thou  claimest  a  heart’’  — 

brings  us  to  Totnes,  where,  on  the  high  au¬ 
thority  of  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  the  first 
king  of  the  Britons,  Brutus,  grandson  of  the 
pious  iEneas,  made  his  landing. 

“Here  I  am,  and  here  I  res’, 

And  this  town  shall  he  called  Totnes.” 

The  Brutus  Stone,  on  which  the  Trojan 
first  set  foot,  is  shown  in  irrefutable  proof  of 
this  event.  In  the  course  of  the  trip,  the 
steamer  passes  Greenway  House,  where  Sir 
Humphrey  Gilbert  was  born  and  where,  it 
is  claimed,  the  potato  first  sprouted  in  Eng¬ 
lish  soil. 

But  the  most  momentous  of  all  these 
southern  ports,  Plymouth,  wears  an  aspect 
worthy  of  its  renown.  The  spell  of  the  briar- 
rose  has  not  choked  its  growth,  although  the 
glamour  of  a  glorious  past  enhances  its 
present  greatness.  As  we  gazed  from  Ply- 
22  337 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 

mouth  Hoe,  a  lofty  crescent  on  the  sea-front, 
with  a  magnificent  outlook  across  the  long 
granite  break-water  and  the  Sound  alive 
with  all  manner  of  shipping,  past  the  Eddy- 
stone  Light  to  the  Atlantic,  our  thoughts, 
even  while  recognising  the  prosperity  of  this 
modern  naval  station,  flew  back  to  those 
brave  old  times  when  the  steep  streets  and 
the  high  bluff  rang  not  only  with  the  gruff 
hails  of  bronzed  sea-captains, 

“dogs  of  an  elder  day 
Who  sacked  the  golden  ports,” 

but  with  the  merry  quips  and  laughter  of  the 
gay  young  blades  who  loved  to  ruffle  it  before 
the  Devon  belles. 

“How  Plymouth  swells  with  gallants!  how  the  streets 
Glister  with  gold!  You  cannot  meet  a  man 
But  trikt  in  scarf  and  feather.” 

Sumptuous  ocean  liners  call  at  Plymouth 
now;  the  terrible  war-ships  of  England  ride 
that  ample  roadstead;  but  we  remembered 
the  gallant  little  crafts  of  yore,  the  Dread¬ 
nought  and  the  Defiance,  the  Swiftsure,  the 
Lion,  the  Rainbow,  the  Nonpareil,  the  Peli¬ 
can,  the  Victory,  and  the  Elizabeth.  It  was 
from  Plymouth  that  Drake,  “fellow-traveller 

SS8 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


of  the  Sunn,”  put  forth  on  the  voyage  that 
circumnavigated  the  globe,  and  here  he  was 
playing  at  bowls  when  on  the  Hoe  was  raised 
the  cry  that  the  Spanish  Armada  had  been 
sighted.  But  not  all  the  galleons  of  Spain 
could  flurry  “Franky  Drake.” 

“Drake  nor  devil  nor  Spaniard  feared; 

Their  cities  he  put  to  the  sack; 

He  singed  His  Catholic  Majesty’s  beard, 

And  harried  his  ships  to  wrack. 

He  was  playing  at  Plymouth  a  rubber  of  bowls 
When  the  great  Armada  came, 

But  he  said,  ‘They  must  wait  their  turn,  good  souls;’ 
And  he  stooped  and  finished  the  game.” 

His  statue  presides  over  the  broad  esplan¬ 
ade,  looking  steadily  seaward,  —  a  sight  that 
put  us  again  to  quoting  Newbolt: 

“Drake,  he’s  in  his  hammock  an’  a  thousand  mile  away, 
(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin’  there  below  ?) 

Slung  atween  the  round  shot  in  Nombre  Dios  Bay, 

An’  dreamin’  arl  the  time  o’  Plymouth  Hoe. 

Yamder  lumes  the  island,  yarnder  lie  the  ships, 

Wi’  sailor  lads  a-dancin’  heel-an’-toe, 

An’  the  shore-lights  flashin’,  an’  the  night-tide  dashin’. 
He  sees  it  arl  so  plainly  as  he  saw  et  long  ago. 

“Drake  he  was  a  Devon  man,  an’  ruled  the  Devon  seas, 
(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin’  there  below  ?) 

Rovin’  tho’  his  death  fell,  he  went  wi’  heart  at  ease, 

An’  dreamin’  arl  the  time  o’  Plymouth  Hoe. 

339 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


‘Take  my  drum  to  England,  hang  et  by  the  shore, 

Strike  et  when  your  powder’s  runnin’  low; 

If  the  Dons  sight  Devon,  I’ll  quit  the  port  o’  Heaven, 
An’  drum  them  up  the  Channel  as  we  drummed  them 
long  ago.’” 


It  is  hard  to  put  by  those  visions  of  the 
Armada  days  even  to  think  of  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh’s  tragic  return  to  Plymouth  and  the 
block,  his  high  heart  foiled  at  last  in  its  long- 
quest  for  the  golden  city  of  Manoa;  and  I 
hardly  dare  confess  that  we  quite  forgot  to 
hunt  out  the  special  nook  whence  the  May¬ 
flower,  with  her  incredible  load  of  furniture 
and  ancestors,  set  sail  to  found  another 
Plymouth  on  a  bleaker  shore. 

The  northern  coast  of  Devonshire,  with  its 
more  bracing  air,  is  no  less  enchanting  than 
the  southern.  Charles  Kingsley,  born  under 
the  brow  of  Dartmoor,  has  lavished  on  North 
Devon  raptures  of  filial  praise,  but  the  scenes 
of  “Westward  Ho ! ”  fully  bear  out  his  glowing- 
paragraphs.  It  is  years  ago  that  I  passed 
an  August  in  Clovelly,  but  the  joy  of  it  lingers 
yet.  Nothing  that  I  have  ever  seen  on  this 
our  starry  lodging-place,  with  its  infinite 
surprises  of  beauty,  resembles  that  white 
village  climbing  the  cleft  of  a  wooded  cliff, 

340 


THE  FAL 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


its  narrow  street  only  a  curving  slope,  a  steep 
passage  here  and  there  smoothed  into  steps, 
where  donkeys  and  pedestrians  rub  amiable 
shoulders.  At  a  turn  in  this  cobbled  stair¬ 
way,  your  gaze,  which  has  been  held  between 
two  lines  of  the  quaintest  little  houses,  all 
diversified  with  peaks  and  gables,  porches 
and  balconies,  window  displays  of  china  and 
pots  of  flowering  vines,  suddenly  falls  to  a  tiny 
harbour,  a  pier  built  out  from  the  natural 
rock  and  hung  with  fishing- nets,  a  tangle  of 
red-sailed  boats,  and  a  pebbly  beach  from 
which  we  used  to  watch  the  sunset  flushing 
sea  and  cliffs.  The  five  hundred  dwellers 
in  this  hanging  hamlet  must  all  be  of  a  kin, 
for  Clovelly  lads,  we  were  told  by  our  land¬ 
lady,  never  do  well  if  they  marry  outside 
the  combe.  Kindest  of  gossips !  She  tucked 
us  away  as  best  she  could  in  such  bits  of 
rooms  that,  like  Alice  in  Wonderland,  we 
had  to  thrust  one  foot  up  chimney  and  one 
arm  out  of  the  window  among  the  fuchsias 
and  geraniums  that  make  nothing,  in  Clov¬ 
elly,  of  growing  to  a  height  of  twenty  feet. 
She  would  put  us  up  wonderful  luncheons  of 
duck  sandwiches  and  heather-honey  and 
lime-water  delicately  flavoured  from  the  old 

341 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


whiskey  bottles  into  which  it  was  poured, 
when  we  were  starting  out  on  those  long 
walks  to  which  North  Devon  air  and  views 
allure  the  laziest.  Sometimes  we  followed 
the  Hobby  Drive,  a  wooded  avenue  along  the 
top  of  the  cliff,  where  for  considerable  dis¬ 
tances  a  wall  of  noble  timber,  beech  and  oak 
and  chestnut,  glistening  hollies  and  red- 
berried  rowans,  would  shut  out  the  view,  and 
again  the  foliage  would  open  and  the  eye 
could  range  across  an  opal  sea  to  Lundy 
Island.  On  other  days  we  would  stroll 
through  Clovelly  Court  to  the  summit  of 
White  Cliff,  known  as  Gallantry  Bower, 
whence  one  may  look  at  choice  far  out  over 
blowing  woods  or  tossing  waves.  The  tow¬ 
ering  trees  of  the  park,  trees  that  Will  Carey 
may  have  climbed,  are  so  ancient  now  that 
ferns  and  mosses  grow  on  their  decaying 
branches.  Once  we  picked  our  way  over 
the  shingles  to  Bucks  Mill,  gathering  only  to 
drop  again  handfuls  of  the  curiously  flecked 
and  banded  pebbles.  The  water  seemed  to 
have  as  many  colours  as  they,  tans  and  rus¬ 
sets  and  copper- tints  innumerable,  with  shift¬ 
ing  gleams  of  turquoise  and  of  beryl.  Bucks 
Mill  is  a  fishing-hamlet  of  some  one  hundred 

34? 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


and  fifty  souls,  representing  two  original  fami¬ 
lies,  one  of  which,  “the  Browns,”  a  swarthy 
and  passionate  race,  is  said  to  descend  from 
Spanish  sailors  wrecked  off  the  coast  when 
gale  and  billow  sided  with  England  against 
the  doomed  Armada. 

Another  day  we  walked  to  Stoke,  seven 
miles  thither  and  seven  miles  back,  to  see  the 
Saxon  church  raised  by  the  Countess  Elgitha 
in  gratitude  for  the  escape  from  shipwreck 
of  her  husband,  Earl  Godwin.  All  the  way 
we  were  passing  cottages  that  seemed  to  have 
strayed  out  of  an  artist’s  portfolio.  Their 
rosy  walls  of  Devonshire  cob  —  the  reddish 
mud  of  the  region  mixed  with  pebbles  — 
were  more  than  half  hidden  by  the  giant 
fuchsias  and  clambering  honeysuckles.  Even 
the  blue  larkspur  would  grow  up  to  the  thatch. 
Too  often  our  road  was  shut  in  by  hedges 
and  we  trudged  along  as  in  a  green  tunnel 
roofed  with  blue.  Dahlias  and  hydrangias, 
poppies,  hollyhocks  and  roses  filled  the  cot¬ 
tage  dooryards  and  gardens  with  masses  of 
bloom.  We  asked  a  woman  smiling  in  her 
vine- wreathed  doorway  how  near  we  were  to 
Hartland.  “Win  the  top  of  yon  hill,”  she 
said,  “and  you’ll  soon  slip  away  into  it.” 

343 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


So  we  slipped  away  and  were  refreshed  in 
another  cottage  doorway  by  two  glasses  of 
skim- milk  for  a  penny.  We  found  a  grave 
old  church  at  Stoke,  with  legions  of  rooks 
wheeling  about  the  massive  tower  which  has 
so  long  been  a  beacon  for  storm- tossed  mari¬ 
ners.  The  white-bearded  verger,  whose  roll¬ 
ing  gait  betrayed  the  sailor,  read  to  us  in 
stentorian  tones,  punctuated  with  chuckles, 
an  epitaph  which,  in  slightly  varied  form, 
we  had  seen  elsewhere  in  Devon : 

“Here  lies  I  at  the  church  door. 

Here  lies  I  because  I’s  poor. 

The  farther  in,  the  more  to  pay; 

But  here  lies  I  as  well  as  they.” 


Our  homeward  walk,  by  a  different  road, 
gave  us  a  clearer  impression  of  the  ranges  of 
naked  hilltops  which  make  up  the  Hartland 
parish.  Upon  those  rounded  summits  rested 
a  mellow  western  light  which  had  dimmed 
into  dusk  when  we  finally  risked  our  weary 
bones  on  the  slippery  “back  staircase”  of 
Clovelly. 

We  journeyed  from  Clovelly  to  Bideford  by 
carrier’s  cart,  sitting  up  with  what  dignity 
we  could  amidst  a  remarkable  miscellany 

344 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 

of  packages.  Once  arrived  at  Kingsley’s 
hero-town,  we  read,  as  in  honour  bound,  the 
opening  chapter  of  “Westward  Ho!”  crossed 
the  historic  bridge  and  sought  out  in  the 
church  the  brass  erected  to  the  noble  memory 
of  Sir  Richard  Grenville,  who  drove  the 
little  Revenge  with  such  a  gallant  recklessness 
into  the  thick  of  the  Spanish  fleet,  fought  his 
immortal  fight,  and  died  of  his  wounds  “with 
a  joyful  and  quiet  mind.”  The  exceeding 
charm  of  this  Bristol  Channel  coast  made  us 
intolerant  of  trains  and  even  of  coaches,  so 
that  at  lovely,  idle  Ilfracombe  we  took  to  our 
feet  again  and  walked  on  by  a  cliff  path  to 
Combe  Martin.  Here  we  were  startled,  on 
going  to  bed,  to  find  packed  away  between 
the  thin  mattresses  a  hoard  of  green  pears, 
hard  as  marbles,  and  not  much  bigger,  which 
the  small  boy  of  the  inn,  apparently  intent 
on  suicide,  had  secreted.  The  towered 
church,  some  eight  or  nine  centuries  old,  was 
shown  to  us  by  a  sexton  who  claimed  that  the 
office  had  descended  in  his  family  from  father 
to  son  for  the  past  three  hundred  years. 
However  that  may  be,  he  was  an  entertain¬ 
ing  guide,  reading  off  his  favourite  “posy- 
stones"  with  a  relish,  and  interpreting  the 

345 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


carvings  of  the  curious  old  rood-screen  ac¬ 
cording  to  a  version  of  Scripture  unlike  any 
that  we  had  known  before.  Thence  our  way 
climbed  up  for  two  toilsome  miles  through  a 
muddy  sunken  lane,  in  whose  rock  walls  was 
a  growth  of  dainty  fern.  It  was  good  to 
come  out  in  view  of  the  rival  purples  of  sunny 
sea  and  heathery  hills,  good  to  be  regaled 
on  “cold  shoulder”  and  Devonshire  junket 
in  a  stone- floored  kitchen  with  vast  fireplace 
and  ponderous  oaken  settles,  good  to  start 
off  again  across  Trentishoe  Common,  glori¬ 
ous  with  gorse,  and  down  the  richly  wooded 
combe,  past  a  farmyard  whose  great  black 
pig  grunted  at  us  fearsomely,  and  still  down 
and  down,  through  the  fragrance  of  the  pines. 
We  turned  off  our  track  to  follow  the  eddying 
Heddon  to  the  sea,  and  had,  in  consequence, 
a  stiff  scramble  to  gain  our  proper  path  cut 
high  in  the  Channel  side  of  the  cliff.  We 
walked  along  that  narrow  way  in  a  beauty 
almost  too  great  to  bear,  but  the  stress  of 
emotion  found  some  relief  in  the  attention 
we  had  to  give  to  our  footing,  for  the  cliff  fell 
sheer  to  the  sunset-coloured  waters.  We 
spent  the  night  at  Wooda  Bay,  walking  on  in 
the  morning  for  a  jocund  mile  or  two  through 

346 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


fresh-scented  larchwoods,  then  across  Lee 
Abbey  Park  and  through  the  fantastic  Valley 
of  Rocks,  along  another  cliff- walk  and  down 
a  steep  descent  to  Lynmouth,  where  Shelley’s 
“myrtle- twined  cottage”  stands  upon  the 
beach.  Lynmouth,  where  the  songs  of  sea 
and  river  blend,  was  more  to  our  taste  in  its 
picturesque  mingling  of  the  old  and  the  new, 
of  herring-village  and  watering-place,  than 
its  airy  twin,  Linton,  perched  on  the  cliff- top 
four  hundred  feet  above,  but  both  are  little 
paradises  and,  having  located  ourselves  in 
one,  the  first  thing  we  did  was  to  leave  it  and 
visit  the  other.  We  lingered  for  a  while 
in  this  lovely  corner  of  creation,  till  one 
blithe  morning  we  could  put  up  no  longer 
with  the  saucy  challenge  of  the  Lyn  and 
chased  that  somersaulting  sprite,  that  per¬ 
petual  waterfall,  five  miles  inland,  so  coming 
out  on  the  heathery  waste  of  Exmoor. 

We  would  gladly  have  turned  gipsies  then 
and  there,  if  so  we  might  have  wandered  all 
over  and  over  that  beautiful  wild  upland, 
and  down  through  the  undulating  plain  of 
mid-Devon,  with  its  well-watered  pastures 
and  rich  dairy-farms  for  whose  butter  and 
cheese  the  Devonshire  sailors,  as  Hakluyt’s 

347 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


narratives  tell,  used  to  long  sorely  on  their 
far  voyages.  But  the  genuine  garden  of 
Devon  is  South  Hams,  below  Dartmoor  and 
between  the  Teign  and  the  Tamar.  This  is 
the  apple-country  of  which  the  poet  sings: 

“For  me  there ’9  nought  I  would  not  give 
For  the  good  Devon  land, 

Whose  orchards  down  the  echoing  cleeve 
Bedewed  with  spray-drift  stand, 

And  hardly  bear  the  red  fruit  up 
.  That  shall  be  next  year’s  cider-cup.” 

Little  as  Parson  Herrick,  the  indignant 
incumbent  of  Dean  Prior,  enjoyed  his  Devon¬ 
shire  charge,  the  cider  industry  of  the  region 
must  have  appealed  to  him. 

But  this  broad  county,  outranked  in  size 
only  by  York  and  Lincolnshire,  has  in  its 
south,  as  in  its  north,  a  desolate  tableland. 
Dartmoor  has  been  described  as  a  “mon¬ 
strous  lump  of  granite,  covered  with  a  peaty 
soil.”  The  rocks  are  rich  in  lead  and  iron, 
tin  and  copper,  but  the  soil  is  too  poor  even 
for  furze  to  flourish  in  it.  Heather,  reeds, 
moss  and  whortleberries  make  shift  to  grow, 
and  afford  a  rough  pasturage  to  the  scam¬ 
pering  wild  ponies,  the  moor-sheep  and  red 
cattle.  It  is  a  silent  land  of  rugged  tors  and 

348  ' 


SOMERSET  AND  DEVONSHIRE 


black  morasses,  of  sudden  mists  and  glooms, 
of  prehistoric  huts,  abandoned  mines,  and, 
above  all,  for  “Superstition  clings  to  the 
granite,”  of  dark  stories,  weird  spells,  and 
strange  enchantments.  Indeed,  it  folds  a 
horror  in  its  heart,  —  Dartmoor  Prison, 
where  our  American  sailors  suffered  a  cen¬ 
tury  ago,  and  where  English  convicts  are  now 
ringed  in  by  grim  walls  and  armed  sentries. 
It  is  said  that  even  to-day,  when  a  Dartmoor 
child  gets  a  burn,  the  mother’s  first  remedy 
is  to  lay  her  thumb  upon  the  smarting  spot 
and  repeat: 

“There  came  two  angels  out  of  the  west, 

One  brought  fire,  the  other  brought  frost. 

Out,  fire!  In,  frost! 

By  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost! 

Amen,  amen,  amen.” 

Among  the  mysterious  groups  of  so-called 
Druid  stones  is  a  circle  known  as  the  Nine 
Maidens,  for  these  uncouth  grey  shapes  were 
once  slender  girls  so  fond  of  dancing  that  they 
would  not  cease  on  Sunday,  and  for  that 
sin  were  petrified.  And  still  every  Sabbath 
noon  these  impenitent  stones  come  to  life  and 
dance  thrice  around  in  a  circle. 


340 


CORNWALL 


BUT  the  veritable  Pixydom  lies  south  of 
the  Tamar.  In  Cornwall,  that  stretch 
of  deserted  moors  furrowed  on  either 
side  by  little  river- valleys,  that  rocky  prom¬ 
ontory  which  seems  to  belong  more  to 
the  kingdom  of  the  sea  than  to  England, 
the  Celtic  imagination  has  rioted  at  will. 
There  were  giants  in  the  land  in  bygone 
days,  for  the  wanderer  among  those  strangely 
sculptured  crags  of  granite,  slate,  and  serpen¬ 
tine  chances  at  every  turn  on  a  Giant’s  Cradle 
or  a  Giant’s  Chair,  Giant’s  Spoon,  Giant’s 
Bowl,  Giant’s  Key,  Giant’s  Hat,  Giant’s 
Table,  Giant’s  Well,  Giant’s  Pulpit,  Giant’s 
Grave.  Cornishmen  have  heard  the  fairy 
music  and  seen  the  fairy  dances,  spied 
on  fairy  banquets,  and  peeped  in  on  fairy 
funerals.  The  Small  People  have  been  gay 
and  kindly  neighbours,  sometimes  whisk¬ 
ing  away  a  neglected  baby  and  returning  the 
little  mortal  all  pink  and  clean,  wrapped  in 

350 


CORNWALL 


leaves  and  blossoms,  “as  sweet  as  a  nut.” 
These  are  the  spirits  of  Druids,  or  of  other 
early  Cornwall  folk,  who,  as  heathen,  may 
not  go  to  heaven,  but  are  too  innocent  for  hell. 
So  they  are  suffered  to  live  on  in  their  old 
happy  haunts,  but  ever  dwindling  and  dwind¬ 
ling,  till  it  is  to  be  feared  that  bye  and  bye, 
what  with  all  the  children  growing  stupid  over 
schoolbooks,  and  all  the  poets  writing  realistic 
novels,  the  Small  People  will  twinkle  out  of 
sight.  The  Spriggans,  lurking  about  the 
cairns  and  cromlechs,  where  they  keep  guard 
over  buried  treasures,  could  better  be  spared. 
They  are  such  thievish  and  mischievous  trolls, 
with  such  extraordinary  strength  in  their  ugly 
bits  of  bodies,  it  is  more  likely  they  are  the 
diminished  ghosts  of  the  old  giants.  The 
Piskies  are  nearly  as  bad,  as  any  bewildered 
traveller  who  has  been  Pisky-led  into  a  bog 
would  testify.  The  only  sure  protection 
against  their  tricks  is  to  wear  your  garments 
inside  out.  Many  a  Cornish  farmer  has 
found  a  fine  young  horse  all  sweated  and  spent 
in  the  morning,  his  mane  knotted  into  fairy 
stirrups  showing  plainly  how  some  score  of 
the  Piskies  had  been  riding  him  over  night. 
And  many  a  Cornish  miner,  deep  down  in  the 

351 


CORNWALL 


earth,  has  felt  his  hair  rise  on  his  head  as  he 
heard  the  tap,  tap,  tap  of  the  Knockers,  souls 
of  long- imprisoned  Jews  sent  here  by  Roman 
emperors  to  work  the  tin- mines  of  Cornwall. 
The  Brownies,  who  used  to  be  so  helpful 
about  the  house,  have  grown  shy  of  late  and 
can  be  depended  on  for  assistance  only  when 
the  bees  are  swarming.  Then  the  housewife 
beats  on  a  tin  pan,  calling  at  the  top  of  her 
voice:  “Brownie!  Brownie!’'  till  she  sees 
that  he  has  heard  her  and  is  persuading  the 
bees  to  settle.  Offended  mermaids  have 
choked  up  Cornish  harbours  and  buried  sea- 
coast  villages  under  sand.  If  you  doubt  it, 
go  and  look  at  the  little  church  of  St.  Piran  — 
the  miners’  saint,  who  came  sailing  from  Ire¬ 
land  on  a  millstone  and  discovered  the  Cor¬ 
nish  tin  —  the  church  that  for  seven  centuries 
was  hidden  under  the  sands  and  then,  as  the 
restless  winds  sifted  and  searched  them,  rose 
again  to  human  sight.  Spectral  hounds  bay 
across  the  moors,  and  a  phantom  coach  is 
sometimes  heard  rolling  with  a  hollow  rumble 
along  the  deep-hedged  roads.  Ghost  ships 
with  all  sail  set  drive  by  the  shores  on  gusty 
nights,  and  the  Death  Ship,  tall,  dark,  square- 
rigged,  with  black  sails  and  a  demon  crew,  has 

352 


CORNWALL 


been  known  to  come,  in  crashes  of  thunder 
and  flare  of  lightning,  for  the  soul  of  a  noto¬ 
rious  wrecker.  Drowned  sailors  call  from 
under  the  tide  or  speed  along  the  strand  with 
dripping  clothes  and  hair.  Witches,  sor¬ 
cerers,  fortune-tellers,  charmers  and  “cun¬ 
ning  men”  are  among  the  historic  characters 
of  Cornwall.  In  fact,  the  Witch  of  Freddam 
still  rides  the  seas  in  her  coffin,  stirring  up 
storms  with  her  ladle  and  broom.  The  luck¬ 
less  sailor  who  has  set  eyes  on  her  will  not  see 
his  home  again.  Miners,  too,  have  their 
special  dangers.  The  goblins  that  they  some¬ 
times  chance  on  underground,  hunched  up 
into  uncouth  shapes  or  tumbling  heels  over 
head,  are  not  ill- met,  as  their  presence  indi¬ 
cates  rich  lodes,  but  it  would  never  do  to 
mark  a  cross  on  the  wall  of  a  mine  gallery, 
or  to  pass  a  snail  on  your  way  to  the  shaft 
without  dropping  for  it  a  morsel  of  tallow 
from  your  candle.  The  newly  dead  notify 
their  friends  of  the  event  in  many  a  curious 
fashion,  even  by  shaking  the  milk  in  the  pans 
and  spoiling  the  clotted  cream.  A  woman 
shamed  to  suicide  haunts  her  betrayer  in  the 
form  of  a  white  hare.  Cornishmen  cannot 
die  easy  on  a  feather-bed,  nor  in  a  house 
23  3.53 


CORNWALL 


where  any  key  is  turned  or  bolt  is  shot,  nor 
would  they  be  carried  to  the  grave  by  a  new 
road,  nor  buried  on  the  north  side  of  the 
church.  If  rain  fall  —  as  in  Cornwall  it 
often  does  —  on  a  bier,  it  is  a  sign  that  the 
soul  has  “arrived  safe.” 

Amid  all  these  supernatural  influences,  it 
is  reassuring  to  know  that  the  Devil  never 
enters  this  county,  having  a  wholesome  fear 
of  being  made  into  a  pie.  His  cloven  hoofs 
once  ventured  across  the  Tamar,  but  he  was 
dismayed  to  find  that  the  Cornish  women 
put  everything,  fish,  flesh,  fowl,  vegetables, 
whatnot,  into  pie.  By  the  time  poor  Beelze¬ 
bub  had  partaken  of  fishy  pie,  stargazy  pie 
—  made  of  pilchards,  —  conger  pie  —  made 
of  eels,  —  lamy  pie  —  made  of  kid,  —  herby 
pie,  parsley  pie,  and  piggy  pie,  his  nerves 
gave  way,  and  he  bolted  out  of  the  shire  so 
precipitately  that  he  strewed  the  hills  and 
the  coast  with  his  travelling  equipment  of 
Devil’s  Bellows,  Devil’s  Ovens,  and  Devil’s 
Frying-pans. 

It  is  mainly  in  West  Cornwall  that  such 
fantastic  figurings  in  the  rocks  are  referred 
to  the  Devil  or  the  giants.  On  the  eastern 
moors  thev  are  more  commonlv  attributed  to 

354 


CORNWALL 


King  Arthur,  whose  Beds  and  Chairs  and 
Cups  and  Saucers  and  the  Footprints  of 
whose  horse  are  numerous  enough  to  put  the 
skeptic  out  of  countenance.  But  not  only 
our  first  encounter,  as  we  entered  Cornwall 
by  the  east,  was  with  King  Arthur,  but  almost 
our  last,  as  we  left  the  Duchy  by  the  west,  — 
for  this  shire  is  proud  to  be  known  as  the 
Royal  Duchy,  claiming  that  the  eldest  son  of 
the  Crown  is  born  Duke  of  Cornwall  and 
only  subsequently  created  Prince  of  Wales. 
Within  what  seemed  but  a  short  time  after 
crossing  the  broad  boundary  stream,  dotted 
with  sleepy  craft,  we  found  ourselves  at  Lis- 
keard,  a  sleepy  old  market- town  blest  with 
a  noble  church  on  whose  outer  wall  is  a  sun¬ 
dial  with  the  grave  motto :  “So  soon  passeth 
it  away.”  It  was  already  late  in  the  after¬ 
noon,  but  a  dark,  thin,  bright-eyed  Cornish- 
woman  in  the  railway  carriage  had  given  us 
most  cheering  information.  Could  we  drive 
to  Dozmare  Pool  before  sunset?  Easily;  it 
was  only  a  round  of  three  or  four  miles  and 
would  take  us  by  the  Devil’s  Cheesewring 
and  The  Hurlers  and  St.  Keyne’s  Well.  The 
waters  of  this  well,  she  went  on  to  tell  us,  have 
the  magic  property  of  giving  the  upper  hand 

3  55 


CORNWALL 


to  that  one  of  a  wedded  pair  first  drinking  of 
them  after  the  ceremony;  and  she  recited 
with  charming  vivacity  snatches  of  Southey’s 
ballad,  while  a  burly,  red-faced,  blue-eyed, 
beaming  tourist  from  over  the  Tamar,  the 
only  man  in  the  compartment,  blurted  out 
a  gallantry  to  the  effect  that  ladies  ought  to 
have  their  way  anyhow,  wells  or  no  wells, 
and  his  silent  little  wife  smiled  a  knowing 
little  smile. 

The  people  at  the  inn  exchanged  glances 
when  we  announced  our  route  and  although, 
setting  out  at  five,  we  confidently  ordered 
dinner  at  seven,  the  landlady  slipped  a  packet 
of  sandwiches  and  two  bottles  of  ginger  ale 
into  the  carriage.  The  coachman,  thin  and 
dark  and  vivid  of  countenance,  like  all  the 
rest  of  this  new  Cornish  world  about  us, 
kindly  but  firmly  refused  to  include  in  the 
drive  St.  Keyne’s  Well,  the  Cheesewring,  a 
curious  pile  of  granite  blocks  some  thirty  feet 
high,  whose  topmost  stone  is  so  sensitive  that 
it  whirls  about  three  times  whenever  it  hears 
a  cock  crow,  and  The  Hurlers,  three  pre¬ 
historic  stone  circles  reported  by  legend,  in 
its  later  Puritan  garb,  to  be  groups  of  young 
Cornishmen  thus  enchanted  for  indulging 


CORNWALL 


on  a  Sunday  in  the  traditional  Cornish  sport 
of  “hurling.”  Dozmare  Pool  was  all  that 
our  determined  Jehu  would  undertake,  al¬ 
though  he  graciously  allowed  us,  in  passing, 
a  glimpse  of  St.  Cleer’s  Well.  This  is  not  as 
famous  as  the  well  of  St.  Neot  the  Pigmy, 
who  endowed  the  sacred  waters  with  miracu¬ 
lous  virtue  by  standing  in  them,  day  after  day, 
immersed  to  his  neck,  while  he  repeated  the 
entire  book  of  Psalms,  or  of  various  others, 
but  it  is  a  spring  of  old  renown,  covered  over 
by  a  steep-pitched  roof  supported  on  time¬ 
worn  pillars  and  arches.  The  niches  of  this 
little  open-air  baptistry  are  now  empty  and 
its  pinnacles  are  broken,  but  beside  it  still 
stands  an  ancient  cross.  The  lofty- towered 
church  of  St.  Cleer  was  close  by,  and  we  en¬ 
tered  to  bow  our  heads  for  a  moment  under 
its  vaulted  and  timbered  roof. 

Our  coachman  would  allow  no  further 
pause.  The  sunset  was  already  casting  a 
crimson  light  over  the  wastes  of  fern  and 
bracken  and  the  earthscars  of  abandoned 
mines,  for  the  hills  all  about  contain  tin  and 
copper,  which  it  does  not  pay  to  work.  Our 
old  white  nag  —  I  hope  his  name  was  Merlin 
—  seemed  incapable  of  fatigue.  I  half  sus- 

3/57 


CORNWALL 


pect  he  was  a  sorcery  steed  of  metal.  Up  and 
down  the  hills  he  scrambled  with  unquench¬ 
able  enthusiasm.  As  the  sun  sank  into  a  bed 
of  bracken,  we  marvelled  that  the  driver  could 
be  sure  of  his  way  across  those  dim  and  fea¬ 
tureless  moors,  but  he  turned  unerringly 
from  one  deep  lane  into  another.  As  we 
drew  nearer  the  Pool,  that  “middle  mere” 
into  which  Sir  Bedivere  flung  the  jewel-hilted 
Excalibur,  the  evil  powers  began  to  array 
themselves  against  us.  For  the  wild  spirit 
Tregeagle,  whose  howling  as  he  is  chased  by 
demon  dogs  has  been  heard  all  over  Cornwall, 
is  doomed  for  his  sins  in  this  mortal  life  to 
labour  endlessly  at  the  hopeless  task  of  empty¬ 
ing  Dozmare  Pool.  It  is  so  deep  —  notwith¬ 
standing  the  awkward  fact  of  its  going  dry 
in  rainless  summers  —  that  not  all  the  bell- 
ropes  in  Cornwall  can  reach  to  its  bottom, 
and  a  thorn-bush,  once  flung  into  it,  floated 
out  into  Falmouth  harbour.  The  bailing 
must  be  done  by  a  limpetshell  with  a  hole  in 
it  and,  altogether,  it  is  no  wonder  that  Tre- 
geagle’s  temper  has  grown  exceedingly 
morose.  For  change  of  occupation,  he  is 
sometimes  taken  to  the  north  coast  and  set 
to  spinning  ropes  of  sand,  or  is  given  a 

358 


CORNWALL 


choked- up  harbour  to  sweep  out,  but  these 
tasks  please  him  no  better,  and  the  shrieks 
of  his  torment  are  borne  on  every  storm. 

As  we  drove  on,  a  light  mist  crept  over  the 
meadows  and  defined  the  course  of  an  attend¬ 
ant  stream.  Clouds  and  trees  took  on  weird 
aspects.  There  were  Druid  robes  floating 
across  the  sky,  misshapen  figures  crouching 
under  the  hedges,  menacing  arms  shaken  from 
the  trees,  and  one  wizard  branch  shot  out  and 
splashed  our  faces  with  unholy  dew.  The 
mist  thickened  and  rose.  The  carriage  left 
the  road  and  bumped  uncertainly  along  till 
it  came  to  a  stop  at  what  we  vaguely  made 
out  to  be  the  foot  of  a  hill.  For  by  this  time 
the  clinging  vapours  had  driven  us  into  our 
waterproofs  and  so  blurred  all  vision  that 
the  driver,  who  could  not  leave  his  fiery  vet¬ 
eran  of  a  horse,  would  not  let  us  attempt  the 
half-mile  climb  alone,  but  sent  a  shout 
plunging  through  that  wet,  white  air  and 
brought  out  some  bogie  of  the  moor,  em¬ 
bodied  as  a  gaunt  old  Cornish  dame,  to  be 
our  guide.  Feeling  her  way  with  a  stout 
stick,  she  led  us  up  the  hill  and  along  a  stony 
track  where  we  could  not  see  our  steps  nor 
one  another’s  faces.  When  she  stayed  us 

359 


CORNWALL 


with  her  staff  and  said  we  had  reached  the 
pool,  we  could  discern  nothing  of  the  sort, 
but  reckless  of  life  and  limb  we  followed  her 
down  an  abrupt  bank  and  over  a  hummocky 
bit  of  ground  to  the  very  brink,  as  she  assured 
us,  of  the  bottomless  tarn.  We  tried  to  think 
we  saw  a  glimmer,  although  we  heard  not 
even 

“the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds, 

And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag.” 

Lacking  an  Excalibur,  I  cast  a  stone  into 
the  invisible,  hoping  I  might  hit  Tregeagle, 
but  the  hollow  splash  that  came  back  aroused 
such  uncanny  echoes  we  all  three  with  one 
accord  skurried  away  and  scrabbled  down 
those  sandy  ruts  to  the  haven  of  the  carriage. 
As  we  gratefully  munched  our  sandwiches, 
we  reflected  that  perhaps  the  mystical  mere 
was  more  impressive  so  than  if  we  had  actu¬ 
ally  beheld  that  little  fresh- water  pond,  about 
a  mile  in  circumference  and  some  eight  or 
ten  feet  deep,  lying  on  its  mid-Cornwall 
tableland  with  the  crest  of  Brown  Gilly  ris¬ 
ing  up  behind.  Our  eyes  had  told  us  noth¬ 
ing  that  we  could  urge  against  Malory’s 
geography,  with  its  sea-route  from  Dozmare 
to  Glastonbury. 


560 


CHURCH  OF  ST.  COLUMU  MINOR 


CORNWALL 


“Then  Sir  Bedivere  took  the  King  upon  his  back, 
and  so  went  with  him  to  that  water  side,  and  when 
they  were  at  the  water  side,  even  fast  by  the  bank  hoved 
a  little  barge  with  many  fair  ladies  in  it,  and  among 
them  all  was  a  queen,  and  all  they  had  black  hoods, 
and  all  they  wept  and  shrieked  when  they  saw  King 
Arthur.  ‘Now  put  me  into  the  barge,’  said  the  King; 
and  so  he  did  softly.  And  there  received  him  three 
queens  with  great  mourning,  and  so  they  sat  them 
down,  and  in  one  of  their  laps  King  Arthur  laid  his 
head,  and  then  that  queen  said,  ‘Ah,  dear  brother, 
why  have  ye  tarried  so  long  from  me  ?  Alas ;  this 
wound  on  your  head  hath  caught  overmuch  cold.’  And 
so  then  they  rowed  from  the  land,  and  Sir  Bedivere 
cried,  ‘Ah,  my  lord  Arthur,  what  shall  become  of  me, 
now  ye  go  from  me  and  leave  me  here  alone  among 
mine  enemies?’  ‘Comfort  thyself,’  said  the  King, 
‘and  do  as  well  as  thou  mayst,  for  in  me  is  no  trust  for 
to  trust  in.  For  I  will  into  the  vale  of  Avalon  to  heal 
me  of  my  grievous  wound.  ’  ” 

But  the  Cornish  mist  in  which  Arthur 
fought  his  last  “dim,  weird  battle  of  the  west  ” 
was  to  us  no  longer  a  fable. 

“A  death-white  mist  slept  over  sand  and  sea; 

Whereof  the  chill,  to  him  who  breathed  it,  drew 
Down  with  his  blood,  till  all  his  heart  was  cold 
With  formless  fear;  and  ev’n  on  Arthur  fell 
Confusion,  since  he  saw  not  whom  he  fought. 

For  friend  and  foe  were  shadows  in  the  mist, 

And  friend  slew  friend  not  knowing  whom  he  slew; 

361 


CORNWALL 


And  some  had  visions  out  of  golden  youth, 

And  some  beheld  the  faces  of  old  ghosts 
Look  in  upon  the  battle.” 

Now  that  we  had  braved  Tregeagle  and 
done  the  deed,  that  heavy  mist  thinned  away 
as  suddenly  as  it  had  gathered,  and  when, 
at  ten  o’clock,  we  reached  our  inn,  the  sky 
was  bright  with  stars,  and  a  great  moon  was 
slowly  drifting  up  from  the  horizon. 

But  the  paramount  Table  Round  locality 
in  Cornwall  is  Tintagel  on  the  western  coast 
where  Arthur’s  Castle  stands  and  where, 
moreover,  the  hushed  tide  brought  him  first 
from  the  mystery  of  “the  great  deep.’’ 


“For  there  was  no  man  knew  from  whence  he  came; 
But  after  tempest,  when  the  long  wave  broke 
All  down  the  thundering  shores  of  Bude  and  Boss, 
There  came  a  day  as  still  as  heaven,  and  then 
They  found  a  naked  child  upon  the  sands 
Of  wild  Dundagil  by  the  Cornish  sea; 

And  that  was  Arthur.” 

The  high,  bleak,  rugged  and  desolate  tract 
of  Bodwin  Moor,  at  whose  heart  is  Dozmare 
Pool,  lies  between  the  four  towns  of  Lis- 
keard,  Bodwin,  Launceston  and  Camelford. 
This  last  was  our  starting-point  for  Tintagel. 
We  had  reached  Camelford  by  a  day’s  jour- 

862 


CORNWALL 


ney  from  Penzance,  setting  out  by  train 
through  a  country  seamed  all  over  with 
abandoned  surface  diggings  of  the  tin  mines, 
pierced  by  shafts  and  defaced  by  heaps  of 
mineral  refuse  to  which  heather  was  already 
bringing  the  first  healing  of  nature.  We  had 
our  nooning  at  Newquay  and  would  have 
been  glad  to  linger  on  its  broad  beach,  look¬ 
ing  up  at  the  twin  barrows  where  sleep,  ac¬ 
cording  to  tradition,  twTo  kings  of  long  ago,  — 
kings  who  fought  on  that  open  headland  a 
whole  day  through  and  fell  together  at  sunset, 
each  slain  by  the  last  thrust  of  the  other.  But 
we  pressed  on  by  carriage,  hardly  glancing 
at  the  long,  low,  stately  towered  church  of 
St.  Columb  Minor,  and  cutting  short  our 
survey  of  the  curious  old  panels,  so  richly 
carved  wTith  sacred  emblems  —  pelicans, 
crosses,  the  instruments  of  the  Passion,  the 
pierced  hand,  a  heart  within  a  crown  of 
thorns,  the  lamb,  the  wafer  and  the  cup  —  in 
the  brother  church  of  St.  Columb  Major. 
From  the  depths  of  our  Cornish  road  shut  in 
by  banks  and  hedges  some  ten  or  twelve  feet 
high,  we  eyed  the  ripe  blackberries  hanging 
well  above  our  reach ;  we  saw  a  blazing  rick 
on  one  side  and,  on  the  other,  a  maze  of  white 

363 


CORNWALL 


butterflies  circling  among  the  fuchsia  trees ; 
we  met  a  group  of  rustic  mourners  pushing 
a  bier  set  on  wheels;  and  just  as  the  hedges 
began  to  open  here  and  there,  giving  us  vistas 
of  wheatfield,  moor,  and  sea,  we  found  our¬ 
selves  at  Wadebridge,  a  little  town  with  a 
street  of  ivy-greened  houses  dignified  by  a 
grey  church- tower.  We  crossed  a  stone 
bridge  of  many  arches  that  seemed  too  big 
for  its  river,  and  took  train  for  Camelford. 
On  our  right  we  had  the  granite  masses  of 
Brown  Willy  and  Rough  Tor  and  presently, 
on  our  left,  the  great  gashes  of  the  Delalobe 
slate  quarries. 

These  held  the  close  attention  of  a  Cornish 
miner  who.  after  forty  years  of  fortune-seek¬ 
ing  in  Australia,  was  coming  home  to  Camel- 
ford  for  a  visit.  He  drove  up  with  us  in  the 
rattling  wagonette,  gazing  on  ragged  hedge 
and  prickly  furze  as  a  thirsty  soul  might  gaze 
on  Paradise.  The  fulness  of  his  heart  over¬ 
flowed  in  little  laughters,  though  the  tears 
were  glistening  on  his  lashes,  and  in  broken 
words  of  memory  and  joy.  He  kept  pointing 
out  to  us,  mere  strangers  that  we  were,  not 
noting  and  not  caring  what  we  were,  the 
stiles  and  streams  and  rocks  associated  with 

364 


Arthur’s  castle,  tintagel 


CORNWALL 


special  events  of  his  boyhood  and  youth. 
As  we  went  clattering  down  into  the  little 
stone  huddle  of  houses,  we  had  to  turn  away 
from  the  rapture  in  his  eyes.  Brothers  and 
sisters  were  waiting  to  greet  him,  with  tall 
children  of  theirs  that  had  been  to  him  but 
names,  yet  the  human  welcome  could  hardly 
penetrate  through  his  dream,  through  his 
ecstatic  communion  with  the  scene  itself. 
As  we  were  driving  out  of  Camelford  early 
the  next  morning,  we  caught  sight  of  our 
grizzled  Cornishman  once  again,  standing 
in  one  of  those  humble  doorways  with  the 
shining  still  upon  his  face. 

A  man  like  that  would  make  anybody 
homesick  and,  to  speak  impartially,  we 
thought  that  Camelford  was  far  less  worthy 
of  such  emotion  than  two  villages  we  sever¬ 
ally  remembered  over  sea.  We  fell  out  of 
humour  with  the  poor  old  town,  would  not 
hear  of  it  as  the  Arthurian  Camelot, 

“a  city  of  shadowy  palaces 
And  stately,” 

and  disdained  the  tradition  that  the  blame¬ 
less  king  fell  at  Slaughter  Bridge.  My  ath¬ 
letic  comrade,  however,  to  the  admiration  of 

365 


CORNWALL 


a  dock  of  little  schoolgirls,  swung  herself 
down  the  liverbsuk  :o  see  his  tombstone  and 
reported  it  as  reading : 

C  xs%  hoc  rare?  fStioj  M  xrwmL 

The  drive  :o  Tintagel  was  through  a  world 
of  slate.  —  slate  everywhere.  There  were 
slate  walls,  slate  houses,  heaps  of  slate-refuse, 
banks  of  broken  slate  feathered  with  gorse 
and  heather,  yawning  mouths  of  disused 
si  ate  quarries.  We  passed  through  denies 
where  slate  was  piled  cliff-high  on  either 
side  Slate  steps  led  up  to  the  footpaths  that 
ran  alonu  the  top  of  the  hedge-banks.  By 
way  of  this  forsaken  region  we  came  to  a 
sleeping  town  Tintagel  Church  lay  before 
us.  hoary,  silent.  Not  a  soul  was  in  the 
streets.  —  not  the  fierce  ghosts  of  Gorlois 
and  of  Tuner  Pendraron.  nor  the  sad  rhost 
o:  Igraine.  nor  file  lovinu  ghosts  of  Tris¬ 
tram  and  Iseult.  We  left  the  carriage  and 
climbed  by  slippery  paths  to  Arthur's  Castle, 
which  is  no  castle,  but  a  colossal  confusion 
o:  tumbled  recks,  some  beared  and  mortared 
once  by  human  hands,  some  grouped  in  the 
fantastic  architecture  o:  nature.  There  we 
sat  astonished  and  dismaved.  for  the  place 

S66 


CORNWALL 


is  like  a  robber  hold,  a  den  of  pirates  fortified 
against  the  land,  rather  than  a  court  of  chiv¬ 
alry.  But  the  scene  was  superbly  beautiful. 
The  ocean  on  which  we  looked  was  a  dazzling 
blue,  and  far  to  north  and  south  stood  out 
the  stern,  dark  outlines  of  the  coast.  The 
sunshine  that  filled  the  surf  with  shimmering 
tints  gleamed  on  the  white  plumage  of  a  gull 
enthroned  on  the  summit  rock  of  the  castle, 
—  most  likely  the  spirit  of  Guinevere,  for 
Arthur,  when  he  revisits  Tintagel,  comes  as 
the  Cornish  chough, 

“Talons  and  beak  all  red  vrith  blood,” — 

a  bird  which  no  true  Cornishman  will  shoot. 

The  monstrous  crags  and  huge  fragments  of 
old  wall  were  cleft  in  a  fashion  strongly  sug¬ 
gestive  of 

“casements  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas  in  fairylands  forlorn,” 

and  we  shuddered  to  imagine  with  what  stu¬ 
pendous  force  the  terrible  tides  of  winter 
must  beat  against  that  naked  coast. 

We  realised  what  the  fury  of  the  sea-winds 
here  must  be  as  we  strolled  through  the 
churchvard.  whose  slate  slabs  are  buttressed 

v 

367 


CORNWALL 


with  masonry  and,  even  so,  tip  and  lean  over 
those  graves  too  old  for  grief.  All  is  ancient 
about  Tintagel  church,  and  most  of  all  the 
Norman  font  whose  sculptured  faces  are 
worn  dim  and  sleepy  with  innumerable  years, 
each  year  bringing  its  quota  of  babies  for  the 
blessing  of  the  holy  water. 

We  had  to  leave  it,  —  the  mysterious 
Titanic  ruin  with  its  bracken  blowing  in  the 
wind,  the  sheep,  chained  in  couples,  that 
prick  their  silly  noses  on  nettles  and  furze,  the 
old  church,  where  bells  tolled  without  ringers 
on  the  day  that  Arthur  fell,  the  old  wayside 
cross,  the  old  stone  dovecote  in  the  vicarage 
garden,  but  not  the  cliffs  and  the  sea.  For 
we  drove  up  the  coast  to  Boscastle,  pausing 
on  the  way  —  and  that  was  our  mistake  — 
to  see  the  little  church  of  Forrabury.  This 
is  the  church  that  longed  for  a  peal  of  bells 
to  rival  those  of  Tintagel,  but  when  the  vessel 
that  brought  the  bells  was  waiting  for  the  tide 
to  take  her  into  the  harbour,  and  the  pilot  was 
thanking  God  for  a  fair  voyage,  the  captain 
laughed  and  swore  that  it  was  only  their  own 
good  seamanship  they  had  to  praise,  where¬ 
upon  a  mighty  billow,  far  out  at  sea,  swept 
down  upon  the  ship  and  overwhelmed  hen 

368 


1 


BO.SCASTLE 


CORNWALL 


only  the  devout  pilot  escaping  with  his  life. 
And  ever  since  —  so  ballad  and  guide-book 
assured  us  —  the  tower  of  Forrabury  church 
has  stood  voiceless,  though  a  muffled  knell, 
when  a  storm  is  coming  up,  is  heard  be¬ 
neath  the  waves.  What  then  was  our  right¬ 
eous  wrath  on  finding  this  venerable  edifice 
all  newdy  done  up  in  pink  frescoes,  —  yes, 
and  with  an  ornate  bell-rope  of  scarlet  twist 
hanging  beneath  the  tower! 

The  harbour  of  Boscastle  is  a  rock-walled 
inlet  somewhat  resembling  that  of  Pasajes  in 
the  north  of  Spain.  Curving  promontories 
shut  in  a  tidal  stream  that  runs  green  in  the 
sun  and  purple  in  the  shadow.  Swift  lines 
of  creaming  foam  glint  across  where  the  river 
yields  itself  up  to  the  strong  currents  of  the 
sea,  —  a  sea  which,  as  we  saw  it  that  brilliant 
September  afternoon,  twinkled  with  myriad 
points  of  intolerable  light. 

How  can  the  pen  cease  from  writing  about 
Cornwall  ?  And  yet  it  must.  There  is  a 
devil  —  a  printer’s  devil  —  that  counts  our 
idle  words.  I  may  not  tell  of  wind-swept 
Monvenstow,  where  Tennyson  and  Hawker 
roamed  the  wave-fretted  cliffs  together  and 
talked  of  the  Table  Round,  nor  of  lofty 
24  369 


CORNWALL 


Launceston,  with  its  ivied  Norman  keep  and 
great  granite  church  whose  outer  walls  are 
covered  with  elaborate  carving.  The  sculp¬ 
tured  figure  of  Mary  Magdalen  at  the  east 
end,  lying  on  her  face  in  an  attitude  of  ex¬ 
treme  dejection,  is  regularly  stoned  by  the 
boys  for  luck,  and  flints  and  shards  were 
lodged,  when  we  saw  her,  all  over  her  poor 
back.  I  may  not  tell  of  Bodwin,  either,  with 
its  memory  of  a  mayor  who  took  a  prominent 
part  in  the  West  Country  revolt  against  the 
reformed  service.  As  a  consequence,  when 
the  agitation  was  over,  he  was  called  upon  to 
entertain  the  royal  commissioner,  who  hanged 
his  host  after  dinner. 

It  is  a  pity  not  to  have  space  to  suggest  the 
softer  beauties  of  the  south  coast.  From 
Truro,  after  a  visit  to  its  new  cathedral  with 
its  holy  memory  of  Henry  Martyn,  we  drove 
by  wTay  of  Sunny  Cove  to  Malpas.  The  gulls 
were  screaming  as  they  sought  their  dinner  on 
the  flats,  and  a  man,  wading  through  the  pools, 
was  gathering  up  belated  little  fishes  in  his 
hands.  We  sailed  between  wooded  banks 
down  the  Fal  to  Falmouth,  which  is  watched 
over  by  the  garrisoned  castle  looming  on  Pen- 
dennis  Head.  The  old  port  lies  in  picturesque 


CORNWALL 


disorder  along  the  inlet,  while  the  new  town 
stands  handsomely  on  the  height  above. 
Here  we  saw,  in  lawns  and  gardens,  a  semi- 
tropical  vegetation,  yuccas,  acacias,  bamboos, 
aloes,  palms,  and  pampas  grass.  Would 
that  there  were  time  to  tell  the  smuggling 
scandals  of  the  Killigrews,  that  witty  and 
graceless  family  who  ought  to  have  learned 
better  from  their  Quaker  neighbours,  the 
Foxes !  It  was  by  a  Killigrew  that  Falmouth 
was  founded  in  the  reign  of  the  first  Stuart, 
and  Killigrews  made  merry  in  Arwenach 
House,  and  made  free  with  the  merchandise 
of  foreign  ships,  for  many  a  pleasant  year. 
The  time  when  piracy  could  be  counted  an 
aristocratic  amusement  has  gone  by  in  Fal¬ 
mouth,  as  well  as  the  bustling  days  when  this 
port  was  an  important  packet  station  whence 
coaches  and  postchaises  went  speeding  up  to 
London.  It  is  now  putting  on  the  gentler 
graces  and  coming  into  repute  as  a  winter 
resort,  though  it  has  not  yet  attained  the 
popularity  of  Penzance. 

On  our  way  from  the  one  to  the  other  we 
passed  through  the  mining  town  of  Redruth, 
near  which,  in  the  hollow  known  as  Gwennap 
Pit,  Wesley  addressed  vast  audiences.  On  one 

371 


CORNWALL 


occasion  the  number  was  reckoned  as  thirty- 
two  thousand.  “I  shall  scarce  see  a  larger 
congregation,’'  he  ’wrote,  “till  we  meet  in  the 
air.”  The  more  mystical  doctrines  of  Fox 
took  little  hold  on  the  rough  fishermen  and 
miners  of  Cornwall,  but  Wesley  practically 
converted  the  Duchy,  turning  it  from  the 
most  lawless  corner  of  England,  a  lair  of 
smugglers  and  wreckers,  into  a  sober,  well- 
conducted  community.  As  little  flames  are 
said  to  be  seen  playing  about  a  converted 
Cornishman,  Wesley’s  path  across  the  county 
must  have  been  a  veritable  Milky  Way.  In 
such  natural  amphitheatres  as  Gwennap  Pit, 
it  may  be  that  the  Cornish  Miracle  Plays,  so 
far  excelling  the  English  in  freedom  of  fancy 
and  symbolic  suggestion,  were  given.  We 
looked  wistfully  from  Hayle  over  to  St.  Ives, 
with  its  long  line  of  fishing  boats  tied  up  like 
horses  to  a  church  fence,  but  since  we  could 
follow  only  one  road  at  once,  held  on  our  wav 
to  Penzance. 

Beautiful  for  situation,  the  “Holy  Head¬ 
land”  looks  out  over  waters  exquisitely 
coloured  toward 

“the  great  Vision  of  the  Guarded  Mount,” 

372 


THE  LIZARD  LIGHT,  CORNWALL 


CORNWALL 


St.  Michael’s  Mount,  a  solemn  cone,  fortress- 
crowned,  above  which  a  praying  hermit,  when 
the  setting  sun  was  flooding  the  skies  with 
splendour,  might  easily  have  deemed  he  saw 
the  guardian  wings  of  the  Archangel.  As  all 
Cornish  children  know,  this  mount  was  built 
by  the  giant  Cormoran  and  rose,  in  those 
days  when  Mount’s  Bay  was  a  fertile  plain  of 
several  parishes,  from  the  midst  of  a  forest, 
“a  hoare  rock  in  a  wood.”  It  was  the  scene 
of  the  glorious  exploit  of  Jack  the  Giant- 
Killer,  who  was  afterwards  appointed  tutor 
to  King  Arthur’s  eldest  son  in  that  special 
branch  of  warfare.  Cornwall  is  so  fond  of  its 
old  giants  that  it  sometimes,  so  folklorists  say, 
confuses  their  deeds  with  those  of  the  saints. 
But  it  loves  its  saints,  too,  who  are  said  to  be 
more  numerous  than  the  saints  in  Paradise. 
Cornish  churches  stand  open  all  day  long,  and 
old  Cornwall’s  affectionate  name  for  the 
Virgin  was  “Aunt  Mary.” 

The  view  ranges  on  across  Mount’s  Bay  to 
The  Lizard,  that  peninsula  so  beautiful  with 
its  serpentine  cliffs  and  Cornish  heath,  the 
wildest  and  loneliest  part  of  all  wild  and 
lonely  Cornwall;  but  our  route  lav  to  its 
companion  point  on  the  southwest.  Our 

373 


CORNWALL 


driver  literally  knew  every  inch  of  the  road 
and  pointed  out  to  us  cross  after  cross,  and 
cromlech  after  cromlech,  —  such  vague  old 
stones,  worn  featureless  and  almost  formless, 
built  into  walls,  half  sunken  under  the  turf, 
embedded  in  banks,  peering  at  us  from  across 
a  field,  thrusting  a  grey  visage  through  a 
hedge,  —  sometimes  a  mere  time-eaten  stump, 
sometimes  a  heathen  monolith  with  the  after¬ 
thought  of  a  crucifix  rudely  graved  upon  it, 
sometimes  a  complete  square  cross.  These 
last  we  often  found  in  churchyards,  set  up  on 
stone  platforms  approached  by  a  flight  of 
steps.  Such  was  the  one  we  noted  in  the 
churchyard  of  St.  Buryan,  another  of  those 
long,  low,  lofty- towered  old  churches  char¬ 
acteristic  of  Cornwall. 

As  we  neared  Penberth  Cove,  the  Atlantic 
opened  out  to  view,  its  sparkling  turquoise 
relieved  by  one  white  sail.  It  was  in  Pen- 
berth  Cove  that  there  once  lived  a  bedridden 
old  woman,  a  good  old  soul,  about  whose 
one-roomed  cottage  the  Small  People,  to 
divert  her,  used  to  sport  all  day,  catching  her 
mice  and  riding  them  in  and  out  of  holes  in 
the  thatch,  dancing  the  dust  off  the  rafters 
and  giving  trapeze  and  tight-rope  perform- 

374 


CORNWALL 


ances  on  the  cobwebs.  The  valley  runs 
green  to  the  sea  and  we  left  the  carriage  for 
a  walk  across  the  fields,  a  walk  diversified 
by  stiles  of  all  known  species,  to  Treryn 
Castle.  This  monstrous  fastness  of  heaped 
rock  and  jagged  crag  was  built  by  a  giant 
who  was  such  a  clever  necromancer  that  all 
he  had  to  do  wras  to  sit  in  the  Giant’s  Easy- 
chair,  to  whose  discomfort  we  can  testify, 
and  will  the  castle  to  rise  out  of  the  sea.  For 
latter-day  necromancy,  our  guide  pointed 
out  Porthcurnow  Beach,  where,  he  said,  six 
submarine  cables  land.  He  was  a  native  of 
the  coast,  a  fisherman,  and  gave  us  eyes  to 
see  the  gulls  rejoicing  over  their  feast  of 
pilchards,  and  ears  to  hear  the  whistle  of  a 
young  otter.  The  Lion  of  Treryn  is  the 
Logan  Rock,  but  we  first  encountered,  in  our 
scramble  over  the  crags,  Lady  Logan,  a 
stumpy  personage  wdiose  hood  and  skirt, 
though  recognisable,  are  of  the  Stone  Age 
fashion.  This  granite  beauty  is  so  sensitive 
in  her  feelings  that  she  trembles  at  a  touch. 
As  we  climbed  higher  among  the  rocks,  in 
the  exhilarating  air,  we  won  views  ever  more 
wonderful  of  rolling  green  billows  shattered 
into  clouds  of  spray  upon  the  shore.  The 

375 


CORNWALL 


Logan  itself  is  an  enormous  rocking- stone,  — 
a  boulder  weighing  some  seventy  tons  deli¬ 
cately  balanced  on  cubical  masses  of  rock. 
It  does  not,  like  the  rocking-stone  in  Burma 
on  which  a  little  pagoda  has  been  built,  os¬ 
cillate  in  the  wind,  but  swings  at  a  sturdy 
push.  It  was  formerly  more  easily  swayed 
than  now,  for  a  mischievous  young  Gold¬ 
smith,  nephew  of  the  poet  who  was  himself 
so  prankishly  inclined,  undertook  in  1824, 
when  commanding  a  revenue  cutter  off  this 
coast,  to  dispel  the  popular  notion  that  no 
human  force  could  dislodge  Logan  Rock. 
On  the  eighth  of  April,  though  the  first 
would  have  been  more  appropriate,  he  landed 
with  a  crew  of  eight  men,  meaning  to  tip  the 
stone  over  into  the  sea.  But  he  only  suc¬ 
ceeded  in  moving  it  some  four  feet  to  the  left 
and,  even  so,  found  his  escapade  an  expen¬ 
sive  one,  for  it  cost  ten  thousand  dollars  to 
replace  the  ponderous  mass  —  as  the  anger 
of  the  people  compelled  the  Admiralty  to 
order  him  to  do  —  on  its  original  pivot. 
With  all  his  efforts,  he  could  not  hit  the  per¬ 
fect  poise,  and  whereas  Logan  Rock  once 
had  the  power  of  healing  sick  children  who 
were  rocked  upon  it,  that  spell  no  longer 

376 


LAND  S  END 


CORNWALL 


works.  It  was  not  the  right  hour  for  us  to 
ascertain  whether  touching  the  stone  thrice 
three  times  would  still  make  a  woman  a 
witch.  This  test  should  be  undertaken  at 
midnight,  when  a  battalion  of  sympathetic 
hags,  mounted  on  stems  of  ragwort,  would 
be  hooting  encouragement  from  their  fav¬ 
ourite  rendezvous  at  the  towering  crag  south 
of  Logan  Rock  known  as  Castle  Peak. 

We  returned  to  our  carriage  and  drove  on. 
The  fields  of  gorse  and  heather  suddenly 
slipped  over  foaming  reefs  and  we  were  at 
Land’s  End.  Great  waves  were  churning 
themselves  white  against  the  ledges.  A  few 
sails  glinted  on  the  horizon ;  a  few  gulls  were 
perching  on  the  rocks ;  but  we  were,  at  first, 
aware  of  nothing  save  the  steep,  broken  wall 
of  granite  and  the  strange,  compelling  song 
of  the  Atlantic.  By  degrees  we  noted  light¬ 
houses,  bays,  and  a  curious  cavern,  with  such 
wave- eaten  arches  as  we  had  seen  at  Biar¬ 
ritz,  beneath  our  very  feet.  We  walked  along 
the  edge  of  the  cliffs,  green  with  turf  to  the 
sheer  plunge.  At  places,  indeed,  the  heather 
runs  down  the  rocks  to  meet  the  tide.  We 
passed  close  by  gulls  that  stood  unstartled 
in  this  their  own  domain  of  crags  and  spray- 

377 


CORNWALL 


dashed  gorges,  eyeing  severely  the  approach 
of  uninvited  guests. 

The  sun  was  setting  and  we  could  distin¬ 
guish  the  Scilly  Isles  like  gold  cloudlets  rest¬ 
ing  on  the  sea.  Between  these  islands  and 
Land’s  End  once  bloomed  the  lost  Arthurian 
realm  of  Lyonesse.  But  weary  of  the  past 
and  its  dim  fables,  our  hearts  followed  that 
rippling  line  of  splendour  further  and  further 
west,  far  out  across  the  Atlantic  to  the  land 
of  hope  and  promise,  the  strong  young  land 
that  fronts  the  future,  vowed  to  the  great 
adventure  of  human  brotherhood. 


INDEX 


Addison,  Joseph,  164 
Addison’s  Walk,  207,  209 
Albright  Hussey,  250 
Alfred,  King,  305 
All  Souls  College,  207 
Altrincham,  110 
Ambleside,  32,  46,  47,  52-60 
Andre,  Major,  132 
Annandale,  men  of,  9 
Arbury  Priory,  144 
Arden,  forest  of,  137 
Arden,  Edward,  182 
Arden,  Mary,  168,  181 
Arden,  Robert,  173,  181 
Arnold,  Dr.,  46 

Arthur,  King,  283,  306-308,  365 ; 
Castle,  366 

Ashton-under-Lyme,  79 
Askew,  Anne,  94,  95 
Askew,  Margaret.  See  Fell,  Mis¬ 
tress 

Athelney,  305 
Avon,  the,  168 

Bacon,  Roger,  304 
Badgeworthy,  the,  300,  301 
Ballads,  of  Carlisle  Castle,  5,  14- 
22 ;  of  the  Grasmere  rush¬ 
bearing,  66-68;  on  Sir  Uryan 
Legh,  112-115;  on  Shrews¬ 
bury,  241;  on  Wookey  Hole, 
313 

Balliol  College,  204 
Barrow-in-Furness,  83,  84 
Bassenthwaite  Water,  33 
Batables,  16-19 
Bath,  315-319 
Battlefield  Church,  247,  250 
Baxter,  Richard,  246,  280 
Beau  Nash,  317,  318 


Beckford,  319 
“Belted  Will,”  25 
Beresford  Dale,  134 
Berkeley  Castle,  296,  297 
Bideford,  344 
Billesley,  185 
Bilton  Hall,  164 
Birkenhead,  124 
Birmingham,  137,  138 
Blaclunore,  R.  D.,  300 
Bladud,  316 
Blenheim  Palace,  200 
Bloody  Meadow,  291 
Bodleian  Library,  229 
Bodwin,  370 
Bolton,  78,  79 
Border,  the,  1-29- 
Boscastle,  368,  369 
Bowness,  32,  47 
Brampton,  27 

Brampton-Bryan  Castle,  262 
Brasenose  College,  209 
Bristol,  322-328 
Brixham,  336 
Broadway,  198 

Broughton,  Sir  Thomas,  90,  91 
Broughton  Tower,  90 
Brownies,  352 
Browning,  Mrs.,  265,  267 
Bucks  Mill,  342 

Button,  Edward,  ballad  ascribed 
to,  66-68 
Burford,  189 
Bury,  79 

Butler,  Bishop,  319 
Butler,  Samuel,  258,  280 
Buttermere  Round,  32 

Cabot,  John  and  Sebastian,  323 
Caerleon,  277 

379 


INDEX 


Caerluel,  7,  8 
Camelford,  362-365 
Camelot,  308 
Canynges,  William,  324 

I  orniiPil 

Carlisle, ’l-22,  27-29;  Castle,  4. 

8-22;  Cathedral,  27,  28 
Charlecote  Park,  168,  109 
Cbartley  Castle,  135 
Chatterton,  Thomas,  322,  324, 
327 

Chaucer,  Geoffrey,  201,  336 
Cheddar,  314 

Cheese,  Cheshire,  118,  123 
Cheesewring,  the,  356 
Chepstow,  276 
Cheshire,  71-75,  110-125 
Chester,  124,  125 
Chesterfield,  Lord,  319 
Chilvers  Coton,  140-146 
Chipping  Campden,  186,  187 
Chipping  Norton,  190-192 
Chorley,  80 

Christ  Church  College,  210 
Church  Mayfield,  134 
Churchyard,  Thomas,  231,  252, 
255 

Cirencester,  189 

Clarke,  James,  on  the  Grasmere 
rush-bearing,  63,  64 
Clent  Hills,  280 
Clevedon,  319-322 
Clifton,  327 
Clitheroe  Castle,  101 
Clive,  Lord,  246 
Clough,  Arthur  Hugh,  62 
Clovelly,  340-344 
Coal-fields,  79,  126,  242,  276 
Coleridge,  Hartley,  48,  62 
Coleridge,  S.  T.,  46,  298,  319, 
320,  324 
Colston,  324 
Colwich  Abbey,  134 
Combe  Florv,  304 
Combe  Martin,  345 
Congleton,  111 
Congreve,  William,  133 
Conishead  Priory,  90 


Coniston,  32,  49 
Convocation  House,  225 
Corby  Castle,  22 
Cornwall,  350-378 
Corpus  Christi  College,  209,  210 
Coryatt,  Tom,  304,  305 
Cotswolds,  the,  184-198 
Cotton,  Charles,  134 
Cotton  towns,  80,  81,  116 
Coventry,  146-156 
Coverdale,  Miles,  331 
Coxwall  Knoll,  265 
Craik,  Mrs.  D.  M.,  128,  293,  294 
Cranmer,  Thomas,  214-216 
Crier  of  Claife,  37 
Crostlnvaite  Vicarage,  47 
Croxden,  Cistercian  Abbey  of, 
133 

Cumberland,  1-35 
Cumbrian  Hills,  42,  50 
Cuthbert,  7 

Dacres,  the,  10,  18,  24,  26 
Dale ,  Icelandic  word,  38 
Dalton,  90 
Danes,  7 
Dart,  the,  337 
Dartmoor,  348,  349 
Dartmouth,  336 
Darwin,  Charles,  233 
Dawlish,  335 
Debatable  Land,  16-19 
De  Clares,  the,  287,  288 
Dee,  the,  121,  123,  124 
Degrees,  at  Oxford,  225-227 
De  Quincey,  Thomas,  48 
Derwentwater,  Earl  of,  36,  37 
Despencers,  the,  288,  289 
Devil,  the,  354 
Devonshire,  329-349 
Divinity  School,  Oxford,  218 
Docks,  at  Liverpool,  77 
Dove  Cottage,  48,  49,  61 
Dovedale,  133 
Dozmare  Pool,  357-362 
Drake,  Sir  Francis,  338,  339 
Drayton,  Michael,  110 
Droitwich,  279 


380 


INDEX 


Dugdale,  Sir  William,  159 
Dungeon  Ghyll,  32 
Dunmail,  34,  35 

East  Budleigh,  298 
Eccleshall,  127 
Eden,  the,  2,  4 
Eden  Hall,  35 
Edward  I,  9,  10,  26 
Edward  II,  10 
Edward  III,  10 
Edward  IV,  10,  154 
Egfrith,  King,  7 
Eliot,  George,  139-146 
Elizabeth,  Queen,  201 
Encomia,  218-225 
Esk,  the,  28 
Evans,  Isaac,  141,  143 
Evans,  Mary  Anne.  See  Eliot, 
George 
Evesham,  197 
Exe,  the,  334 
Exeter,  329-334 
Exeter  College,  204 
Exmouth,  335 

Faber,  G.  S.,  46,  47,  52 
Falmouth,  370,  371 
Farquhar,  George,  132 
Fell,  Icelandic  word,  38 
Fell,  Judge,  93,  94,  90,  97 
Fell,  Mistress,  91,  94-100 
Fielding,  Henry,  167 
Force  (water-fall),  Icelandic 
word,  38 

Forest  Chapel,  72-75 
Forrabury,  church  of,  368,  369 
Four-Shire  Stone,  197 
Fox,  George,  91,  93,  96-100 
Foxe,  John,  209 
Friends.  See  Quakers 
Furness,  83 
Furness  Abbey,  83-90 

Garrick,  David,  132,  269 
Gaskell,  Mrs.,  118-120 
Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  272,  337 


Ghyll  (mountain  ravine),  Ice¬ 
landic  word,  38 
Gilbert,  Humphrey,  337 
Gladstone,  W.  E.,  76 
Glastonbury,  305-312 
Gloucester,  294-296 
Gloucestershire,  184,  186,  197 
Goblins,  353 
Godiva,  Lady,  147,  152 
Goldsmith,  Oliver’s  nephew,  376 
Goodrich  Castle,  272 
Gough,  Charles,  40 
Grasmere,  32,  60-71 
Gray,  Thomas,  50,  272 
Greenway  House,  337 
Gretna  Green,  28 
Grevel,  William,  187 
Greville,  Fulke,  233,  234 
Grey  Brothers  from  Normandy, 
88 

Guy’s  Cliff,  159-161 
Gwennap  Pit,  371,  372 
G wynne,  Nell,  269 

Habington,  William,  104 
Hakluyt,  Rev.  Richard,  324 
Hall,  Susanna,  177,  180 
Hallam,  Arthur,  320-322 
Handel,  134 
Harley,  Lady,  262,  263 
Hathaway,  Anne,  171,  185 
Hawker,  Rev.  R.  S.,  332 
Hawksliead,  32 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  76,  129, 
132 

Haye  Wood,  259 
Heber,  Bishop,  117 
Hemans,  Mrs.,  46,  76 
Henry  VII,  155 
Henry  VIII,  155 
Herbert,  George,  246 
Hereford,  259,  267-270 
Herefordshire,  230,  262,  263,  265 
Herrick,  Robert,  235 
Herschel,  319 
Hertford  College,  204 
Higden,  chronicler,  117 
High  Furness,  83 


INDEX 


Hobbie  Noble,  18 
Hob-Thross,  37 
Holinshed,  chronicler,  117,  201 
Holm  (island),  Icelandic  word, 
38 

Holm  Lacy,  265 
Holmes,  O.  W.,  225 
Holy  Grail,  308,  309 
Hone’s  Year  Book,  on  the  Gras¬ 
mere  rush-bearing,  64,  65 
Hooker,  Bishop,  209 
Hope  End,  265 

How  (mound),  Icelandic  word, 
38 

Hurlers,  the,  356 

Ilam  Hall,  133 
Ilchester,  304 
Iron  country,  92,  126 

Jack  the  Giant-Killer,  373 
James,  Captain  Thomas,  324 
Jesus  College,  209 
Johnson,  Samuel,  his  penance, 
129,  130;  and  11am  Hall,  133; 
at  Stourbridge,  280 
Jowett,  Dr.,  217 

Keats,  John,  335 
Keble  College,  203 
Kelligrews,  the,  371 
Kenilworth,  157-159 
Keswick,  32-34,  47 
Kidderminster,  279,  280 
Kingsley,  Charles,  124,  340 
Kinmont  Willie,  16-22 
Knockers,  352 
Knutsford,  118-120 
Kyrle,  John.  See  Ross,  the  Man 
of 


Lake  Country,  30-51 
Lancashire,  76-110 
Lancaster  Castle,  89,  98 
Landor,  W.  S.,  164 
Land’s  End,  377 


Lanercost,  26 

Langdale  Pikes,  32 

Langland,  281 

Latimer,  Hugh,  214-216 

Launceston,  370 

Layamon,  283,  284 

Leamington,  167 

Leghs,  the.  111-115,  117 

Lemthall  Church,  259 

Lichfield,  130-132 

Lincoln  College,  207,  216,  217 

Linton,  347 

Liskeard,  355 

Liverpool,  76-78 

Lloyd,  Rev.  Owen,  57 

Lochmaben  harper,  15 

Locke,  John,  315 

Logan  Rock,  375-377 

Long  Marston,  185 

Longfellow,  H.  W.,  225 

Longtown,  near  Carlisle,  28 

Longtown,  Staffordshire,  128 

Lord  Derwentwater’s  Lights,  37 

Lovell,  324 

Low  Furness,  83 

Lower  Peover,  122 

Lower  Quinton,  186 

Lucy,  Sir  Thomas,  169 

Luddington,  185 

Ludlow,  252-260 

Lyme  Regis,  335 

Lynmouth,  347 

“Mabinogion,”  the,  277 
Macclesfield,  71,  72,  110,  111 
Magdalen  College,  207,  208 
Malkin  Tower,  102 
Malory,  307,  308 
Malvern,  284 
Malvern  Hills,  281-283 
Malvern  Priory,  283 
Manchester,  79-82 
Mappa  Mundi,  270 
Marlowe,  Christopher,  254 
Martineau,  Harriet,  46 
Martineau,  James,  76 
Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  11,  12, 
135 


382 


INDEX 


Mendip  Hills,  813,  314 
Meriden,  137 
Mermaids,  352 
Mersey,  the,  77,  83 
Merton  College,  203,  204 
Middleton,  79 
Milton,  John,  258 
Milverton,  303 
Minehead,  302 
Monks,  88,  89 
Monmouth,  272 
Monmouthshire,  230,  276 
Montagu,  Lady  Mary  Wortley, 
tomb  of,  132 
Moore,  Thomas,  134 
More,  Hannah,  315 
Moreton-on-the-Marsh,  197 
Morris,  William,  204,  205 
Mortimers,  the,  248,  249,  253, 
254,  260,  261 

Mortimer’s  Cross,  battle  of.  263, 
264 

Morwenstow,  369 
Myers,  Frederic,  47 

Nab  Cottage,  47,  48 
Names,  in  the  Lake  Country,  38 
Nantwich,  121 
Naworth,  24,  25 
New  College,  204-206 
Newcastle-under-Lyme,  128 
Newport,  242,  276 
Newquay,  363 
Nine  Maidens,  the,  349 
North,  Christopher,  see  Wilson 
North  Salop,  242 
Northamptonshire,  184 
Northleach,  189 
Northwich,  121 
Norton,  Thomas,  324 
Norway,  Mr.,  329 
Nuneaton,  138-140 

Oaklet  Park,  259 

Oare,  300-302 

Odcombe,  304 

Offa  the  Saxon,  265 

Old  Schools  Quadrangle,  218 


Oldcastle,  Sir  John,  281 
Oldham,  79 
Oriel  College,  204,  205 
Ottery  St.  Mary,  298 
Oxford,  202-229 ;  Colleges,  203- 
212;  St.  Mary’s,  216-218; 
encaenia,  218-225 
Oxfordshire,  184,  190,  197,  199 

Paley,  William,  28 

Paslew,  John,  107-109 

Pater,  Walter,  209 

Patterdale,  32,  40 

Pembroke  College,  204 

Penberth  Cove,  374 

Pendle  Hill,  101-103,  107 

Penn,  Sir  William,  327 

Penrith,  30,  31 

Pepys,  Samuel,  319 

Percy,  Bishop,  28,  247 

Philips,  John,  269 

Piers  Gaveston,  159 

“Piers  Plowman,”  281 

Pinhoe,  330,  331 

Pipe  Aston,  259 

Piskies,  351 

Plucked ,  226 

Plymouth,  337-340 

Pole,  Cardinal,  209 

Pooley  Bridge,  31 

Pope,  Alexander,  271,  319,  328 

Popping  Stones,  25,  28 

Porlock,  302 

Posting,  138 

Potteries,  the,  127-129 

Preston,  80 

Pring,  Captain  Martin,  324 

Quakers,  93-100 
Quantocks,  the,  299 
Quarry,  Shrewsbury,  234,  236- 
241* 

Queen’s  College,  204,  205 

Races  at  Warwick,  161-103 
Radcliffe,  James,  36,  37 
Raglan  Castle,  273 


INDEX 


Raleigh,  Sir  Walter,  298,  340 
Rawnsley,  Rev.  Canon,  47,  66,  68 
Redditch,  279 
Redruth,  371 
Ribble,  the,  101 
Richard  III,  9,  10,  155 
Richard’s  Castle,  Hereford,  259, 
260 

Richard’s  Tower,  Carlisle  Castle, 
10 

Ridley,  Nicolas,  214-216 
Robsart,  Amy,  217 
Rochdale,  79 
Rollright  Stones,  192 
Romans,  traces  of,  near  the 
Border,  3-5,  26 ;  in  the  Lake 
Country,  34;  at  Chester,  124; 
in  Staffordshire,  134;  near 
Shrewsbury,  243-245 ;  in 
Herefordshire,  265;  at  Caer- 
leon,  278,  279;  at  Gloucester, 
295 ;  at  Bath,  316,  317 
Romney,  painter,  90 
Rosemond,  200,  201 
Roses,  Wars  of  the,  263,  291 
Rossetti,  “Dante’s  Dream,”  77 
Ross,  270,  271 
Ross,  the  Man  of,  271 
Rostherne  Mere,  122 
Rousseau,  Jean  Jacques,  134 
Rowley,  Charles,  82 
Rugby,  164 

Rush-bearing,  at  Ambleside,  52- 
60;  at  Grasmere,  60-71;  at 
Cheshire,  71-75 
Ruskin,  John,  49,  50,  211 
Rydal  Water,  43,  45 

St.  Bees,  35 
St.  Buryan,  374 
St.  Chad,  131,  132 
St.  Cleer’s  Well,  357 
St.  Columb,  Minor  and  Major, 
363 

St.  Edmund  Hall,  204 
St.  John’s  College,  209 
St.  Mary’s  Knoll,  259 
St.  Michael’s  Mount,  373 


St.  Neot  the  Pigmy,  357 

St.  Omer,  104 

St.  Oswald,  63,  68 

St.  Woollos,  church  of,  276,  277 

Salford,  79 

Salt  trade,  121,  122 

Sark,  the,  28 

Savage,  Richard,  326 

Scales  Tam,  44 

Scar  (cliff -face),  Icelandic  word, 
38 

Scilly  Isles,  378 

Scott,  W’alter,  “  Waverley,”  cited, 
13;  “The  Lay  of  the  Last 
Minstrel,”  quoted,  16 ;  and 
the  Popping  Stones,  25,  28; 
“Bridal  of  Triermain,”  cited, 
35;  on  Charles  Gough,  40; 
on  Scales  Tarn,  44 
Severn  Valley,  230-297 
Shakespeare,  Henry,  168 
Shakespeare,  John,  153 
Shakespeare,  Richard,  168 
Shakespeare,  William,  and  Cov¬ 
entry,  149-156;  and  Kenil¬ 
worth,  158;  and  Stratford-on 
Avon,  167-183;  and  the  Cots- 
wolds,  184-186;  and  Oxford, 
199-229 ;  and  Battlefield 
Church,  248,  249 ;  his  portrait 
of  Falstaff,  282 
Sheldonian  Theatre,  218-225 
Shelley,  P.  B.,  47,  347 
Shenstone,  281 
Sheridan,  319 

Shipton,  Edward,  epitaph  to, 
116,  117 
Shottery,  171 
Shrewsbury,  230-243 
Shropshire,  230-251 
Sidmouth,  335 
Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  233,  234 
Small  People,  the,  350,  351,  374 
Smith,  Sidney,  304 
Snitterfield,  i67,  168 
Solway  Moss,  28 
Somersetshire,  305 
Somervile,  John,  181,  182 


INDEX 


South,  Dr.,  131 
South  Hams,  348 
Southey,  Robert,  44,  47,  324,  327 
Southwell,  Robert,  MS.  of,  105, 
106 

Spriggans,  351 
Stafford,  136 
Staffordshire,  125-136 
Staley  Bridge,  79 
Stanley,  Dean,  117 
Stanwix,  3,  4 
Stephenson,  George,  81 
Stockport,  79 

Stoke,  in  Devonshire,  343,  344 
Stoke-under-Trent,  128 
Stoneleigh  Abbey,  159 
Stonyhurst,  103-106 
Stourbridge,  279,  280 
Stow-on-tne-Wold,  189 
Stratford-on-Avon,  167-180 
Strathclyde,  6 

Strensham-on-the-Avon,  280 
Sutton  Walla,  265 
Swarthmoor,  91-100 
Swarthmoor  Hall,  93-96 

Tarlton,  Dick,  247 
Taunton,  302,  303 
Teignmouth,  335 
Temple  Grafton,  185 
Tennyson,  Alfred  Lord,  at  Ox¬ 
ford,  225 ;  and  Caerleon,  277 ; 
and  the  Holy  Grail,  308,  309 ; 
and  Arthur  Hallam,  320-322 
Tewkesbury,  286-294 
Thames,  source,  184 
Thornton,  John,  149 
Tintagel,  362,  366-368 
Tintern,  273-275 
Torquay,  335 
Totnes,  337 

Traherne,  Thomas,  267-269 
Treacle  Bible,  100 
Tregeagle,  358-362 
Trelawney,  Sir  Jonathan,  331 
Trent,  the,  127 
Treryn  Castle,  375 
Trinity  College,  209 

25 


Troutbeck,  47 
Truro,  370 

Tudor,  Owen,  263,  264 


Ullswater,  31 
University,  Oxford,  203 
University  College,  203 
Uriconium,  243-245 
Usk,  the,  276,  277,  279 
Uttoxeter,  129 

Vallum,  3 

Wadebridge,  364 
Wadham  College,  211,  212 
Walton,  Isaac,  133,  134,  136 
Warrington,  80 

Warwick,  the  King-maker,  and 
his  daughters,  289-291 
Warwick,  161-167 
Warwick  Castle,  165-167 
Warwickshire,  137-184,  192,  197 
Waverley,  and  Carlisle  Castle,  13 
Weaver,  the,  121-123 
Wedgwood,  Josiah,  128 
Wellington,  242,  243,  303 
Wells,  312,  313 
Wesley,  371,  372 
Westmoreland,  31,  32 
Wetheral,  22,  23 
Whalley,  107-109 
Whispering  Knights,  195 
Wigan,  80 
Wigmore,  260-262 
Wilmcote,  180 
Wilson,  Professor,  47 
Wilton  Castle,  271,  272 
Wincheombe,  189 
Windermere,  32 

Witches,  101-103,  107,  108,  193, 
313,  353,  377 
Woodstock,  200-202 
Wookey  Hole,  313 
Wootton  Hall,  134 
Wootton-Wawen,  181,  182 
Worcester,  284-286 
Worcester  College,  203 


INDEX 


Worcestershire,  184,  197,  279 
Wordsworth,  William,  sonnet  on 
Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  11; 
and  the  Lake  Country,  36-51 ; 
burial-place,  62 ;  “  Excursion  ” 
quoted,  62;  on  rush-bearing, 
71 ;  on  Furness  Abbey,  84,  85 ; 
“We  are  Seven,”  272;  “The 
Prelude,”  quoted,  299 


Wrekin,  the,  242,  24S,  245 
Wrington,  315 
Wroxeter,  243 
Wycherley,  William,  247 
Wyclif,  216 

Wye,  the,  267,  271,  272 
Wyndcliff,  275 

Young,  Dr.  Thomas,  804 


The  University  Press,  Cambridge,  U.  S.  A. 


914.2 

B529F 

527706 

Bates 

From 

G-retna  G-reen 

to  Landfe 

end 

i  DATE 

t  . 

ISSUED  TO 

.. 

914.2 

B329F 

527706 

